
aassJR^^j^^ns 



Book 



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^Ta/- 



J.H. LYMCH LITH. 



U- L.N.riANHAHT IW; 



POEMS AND LETTERS 



BY 



BERNARD BARTON. 



itb s Ittmuir. 



tj "^ es!> 



EDITED BY HIS DAUGHTER, 



A'£rr EDITION. 




LONDON: 
ARTHUR HALL VIRTUE, & CO. 

25, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

1853. 



% 53 



TO 



MR. AND MRS. SHAWE, 



OF 



KESGRAVE HALL, SUFFOLK, 



THE FRIENDS OF HER DEAR FATHER, 



THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED 



WITH GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE REGARD, 



THE EDITOK. 



PREFACE 



In compiling the present little volume^ it has been 
the wish of the Editor in some measure to carry- 
out her dearest Father's favourite but unfulfilled 
design of an autobiography. It is with reference 
to this that both the Poems and Letters have been 
selected ; and she begs to return her grateful thanks 
to the Publishers of his respective volumes, Messrs. 
Hatchard, Parker, Baldwin, Holdsworth, and Boys, 
for the readiness with which they have granted her 
the freedom of selecting what seemed most de- 
sirable ;— to Mr. Orr, for the kindness which has 
permitted her to avail herself of his purchased 
right in some of the Poems ; — and to Messrs. Vir- 
tue, for the liberality with which she has been 
allowed to glean so largely from his last published 
volume, " The Household Verses."* It has been 

* It is due to the Publishers of this last-named work to state, 
that the following Poems from its pages will be found in the pre- 
sent volume : — ^^Sonnet to a Friend never yet seen, but corresponded 



VI PREFACE. 

deemed allowable to give the Poems that general 
revision which they might have undergone from 
their Author^ had he lived to re-publish them ; a 
need of revision and condensation being evident to 
the Editor herself, and to some others, of whose 
advice and assistance she has not hesitated to avail 
herself. 

The Ivy, — The Valley of Fern^ — Stanzas written 
in the Grounds of Martin Cole, — and some others, 
are given quite unaltered ; being already so well 
known and liked by many persons in their original 
shape. In some instances the moral has been re- 
trenched from the story, or the reflections from the 
scene that originated them, when those reflections 
and moral were obvious enough to suggest them- 
selves, or were repeated in some better form else- 
where ; as in the case of Great Bealings Church- 
yard, Bethesda, &c. 

with for above twenty years. To the Memory of Elizabeth 
Hodgkin. Selborne, a Sonnet. The Shunammite Woman. Me- 
morial of John Scott. To the B. B. Schooner, on seeing her sail 
down the Deben for Liverpool. Sonnet to the Sister of an old 
Schoolfellow. Triplets for Truth's Sake. A Thought. Verses 
suggested by a very curious Old Room at the Tankard, Ipswich. 
Faith, Hope, and Charity. Sonnets written at Burstal. John 
Evelyn. Orford Castle. The Departed. On a Drawing of Nor- 
wich Market-place, by Cotman, taken in 1807. To the Deben. 
To a very young Housewife. 



PREFACE. Vll 

The great bulk of the JPoems is religious ; but 
there are not wanting those of a lighter character^ 
which wiU be found to be the wholesome relaxation 
of a pure, good, and essentially religious mind. 
These may succeed each other as gracefully and 
beneficently as April sunshine and showers over 
the meadow. So indeed such moods followed in 
his own mind, and were so revealed in his do- 
mestic intercourse. 

The Letters are none of them of a very distant 
date ; few early ones having been preserved, and 
where preserved, possessing less interest than those 
of a later date. They have been chosen, so far as 
it was possible, from various correspondents, and 
are arranged, for brevity's sake, not in exact chro- 
nological order as regards all the correspondents, 
but only as regards each. They are not connected 
by Memoir, because few of them are found to re- 
late to the passing events of life, but rather contain 
recollections of that which is already past ; or tell, 
in his own way, what he thought and felt on sub- 
jects of the greatest interest to him. They are of 
various moods, on various subjects, but, like the 
Poems, at one with each other in this, they always 
reveal a heart which, though often playful and 
humorous, like Wordsworth's good old Matthew ; 



Vlll PREFACE. 



like him, too, could never once be said to "go 
astray." 

The Editor owes especial thanks to such of her 
dearest Father's correspondents, who, by kindly 
placing his letters at her disposal, have in great 
measure supplied to her the material by which she 
has been enabled to lay before her readers his own 
opinions in his own words. 

That feeling which has made the Editor entirely 
unequal to write that part of the volume more di- 
rectly biographical keeps her silent upon it here. 
She has intrusted it to one who knew her Father 
well, and on whom she can rely for an impartial 
relation of his history. It has been more amply 
detailed than it would have been for the public 
only, at her request, in order to satisfy many sub- 
scribers to whom the account of his life was likely 
to be especially interesting. 



LUCY BARTON. 



Woodhridge, August I4thj 1849. 



CONTENTS 



Preface 
Memoir 



LETTERS. 



To the Rev. C. B. Tayler 

To Mrs. Shawe 

To W. B. Donne, Esq. . 

To Mrs. Sutton 

To Mr. Clemislia . 

To Miss H. . 

To Elizabeth and Maria C. 

To Mr. Fulcher 

To Miss Betham . 

To the Rev. T. W. Sahnon 

To Jane B. 

To the Rev. G. Crabbe 

Letters from Robert Southey 
Letters from Charles Lamb 

Fragments from Lloyd's Letters 
Letter from Sir Walter Scott 



POEMS. 

Sonnet .... 

Great Bealings Churchyard . 

To the Memoiy of Mrs. M. 

To Friends going to the Sea-side 

ToJ. W. . 

Two Sonnets. Guido Fawkes 

" Not ours the vows of such as plight 

Orford Castle . 

Pool of Bethesda . 

A Full-blown Rose . 

To Lady Peel 

Sonnet, On True Worship 

Sonnet, To my Daughter 

Tears . 

Izaak Walton 

A Child's Morning Hymn 

A Child's Evening Hymn 



Page 

T 

ix 



1 
9 
29 
35 
60 
64 
70 
76 
86 
87 
90 
91 

107 
126 

143 
147 



151 
152 
154 
155 
157 
158 
160 
161 
162 
164 
165 
166 
167 
168 
169 
170 
171 



CONTENTS. 



Bishop Hubert . 

The Missionary ..... 

Old Age ...... 

Penn's Treaty with the Indians 

** Dews that nourish fairest flowers " . 

Aldborough. To the Memory of Crabbe 

To a Friend, on the Death of her Father 

In the first leaf of an Album .... 

A Stream . . . , . . 

Sabbath Days ..... 

Sonnet, To William and Mary Howitt . 

Sonnet, To the same ..... 

Sonnet, In Memorial of Elizabeth Fry . 

On some Illustrations of Cowper's " Rural Walks" 

The Wall-flower 

Zechariah xiv. 7 . . . . 

Winter Eveninsrs .... 

Job V. 17 

On some Pictures .... 

** As I roam'd on the beach, to my memory rose " . 
The Philistine Champion 
Leiston Abbey by Moonlight 
The Valley of Fern . . . . 

An Invitation ..... 

Autumn . . . . . 

Spring, written for a Child's Book . 
In an Album ..... 
Sonnet, On the Death of Joseph Gurney, 1831 
To Joanna ..... 

The Solitary Tomb ..... 

Ive-Gill 

** The rose which in the sun's bright rays " . 

" Which Things are a Shadow " 

To an old Gateway ..... 

Fireside Quatrains to Charles Lamb 

Sonnet, To the Sister of an old Schoolfellow 

The Curse of Disobedience . . . 

Signs and Tokens ..... 

The lyy . . 

Silent Worship ..... 

To the Memory of Robert Bloomfield . 

All is Vanity ...... 

To L- 

Autumn, Written in the Grounds of Martin Cole, Esq. 

A Grandsire's Tale .... 

Sonnet, To Nathan Drake .... 

Matthew vi. 16 . 

Aldborough, from the Terrace 

Sonnet, To a Friend never yet seen, but corresponded with 

above twenty years .... 
Sonnet, To Charlotte M. . . . . 

Sonnet, To the Rev. J. J. Reynolds 
Fall of an old Tree in Play ford Churchyard 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Land which no Mortal may know .... 245 

Fragment on Autumn ..... 246 

On a Vignette of Woodbridge from the Warren Hill . , 247 

Invocation to Autumn ..... 248 

Stanzas, To William Roscoe, Esq. .... 250 

On the Alienation of Friends in the Decline of Life . 251 

Selbome ........ 256 

Dunwich ....... 257 

To the Sky-lark 259 

To a very young Housewife ..... 261 

" AU round was calm and still " .... 262 

" Thy path, like most by mortal trod "... 263 

John Evelyn . . . . . . .264 

Faith, Hope, and Charity ..... 265 

The Shunammite Woman ..... 266 

The Departed ....... 267 

Verses suggested by a curious old Room at the " Tankard " . 269 
The Mother of Dr. Doddridge teaching him Scripture History 270 
*' Could I but fly to that calm, peaceful shore " . . 271 

To a Friend ....... 272 

Hymn for a Sunday School ..... 273 

River Scene ....... 274 

The Abbot turned Anchorite .... 275 

From a Poem addressed to Shelley .... 276 

Autumn Musings . . . . . .277 

The Sea . . . . . . . .278 

To a pious Slave-owner ..... 280 

Whigs and Tories . . . . . .281 

The Deserted Nest ...... 282 

Triplets, for Truth's sake . . . . .283 

To Httle Susan ...... 284 

Sonnet ........ 285 

A Dream ....... 286 

In Memory of F. H. . . . . . .289 

"To be remember' d when the face " . . . 290 

TotheDeben . . . . . . .291 

Epitaph ....... 292 

" Oh had I the wings of a dove " . . . .293 

Too Late ....... 294 

On a Garden ....... 294 

Sonnet, To G. D. L. . . . . . . 295 

Sonnet, On the Death of a Friend . . . .296 

Written in a Prayer-book given to my Daughter . . 297 

Inscription for a Cemetery . . . . . 297 

To A. L 298 

Landguard Fort ....... 299 

To a Friend in Distress ..... 300 

Tardy Approach of Spring ..... 301 

The VaUey of Fern ...... 302 

To Charlotte M. . . . . . .306 

Scott of Amwell ...... 307 

" Some griefs there are which seem to form " . . . 308 

Stanzas ....... 309 



CONTENTS. 



*' There be those who sow beside " 
To the Wife of one disappointed of his Election 
To some Friends returning from the Sea- side . 
A Village Church ..... 

To a Friend on her Birth-day 

Psalm Ixxvii. 10. Sonnet .... 

A New-year Offering, addressed to Queen Victoria 
2 Timothy ii. 4 . . . . , 

The Bible ..... 

Sonnet ...... 

Verses to a Young Friend 

Sonnet ...... 

Jacob wrestling ..... 

Winter Evening Ditty, for a little Girl 

1 Kings xvii. 16 .... 

On the Death of a ChHd .... 

To the " Bernard Barton" Schooner . 

Birth-day Verses, at Sixty-four 

On the Glory depicted round the Head of the Saviour 

To a Grandmother ..... 

" I walk'd the fields at morning prime " 
On a Drawing of Norwich Market-place 
The Spiritual Law .... 

Sonnet ...... 

Vision of an Old Home 

To Felicia Hemans , , . . . 

The Squirrel, for a Child's Book 

^* It is a glorious summer eve, and in the glowing west 

Playford ...... 

Sonnets, To Burstal , , . . . 

Retirement and Prayer .... 

In Coelo Quies . . . 



Page 

310 
311 
312 
314 
315 
317 
318 
323 
324 
326 
327 
329 

aso 

331 
333 
334 
336 
337 
341 
342 
343 
344 
346 
348 
349 
350 
351 
351 

353 
361 
362 



MEMOIR 

OF 

BERNARD BARTON. 

[from a letter of BERNARD BARTON'S.] 

*'2mo, 11, 1839. 

" Thy cordial approval of my brother John's hearty wish 
tG bring us back to the simple habits of the olden time, in- 
duces me to ask thee if I mentioned in either of my late 
letters the curious old papers he stumbled on in hunting 
through the repositories of our late excellent spinster sister ? 
I quite forget whether I did or not ; so I will not at a venture 
repeat all the items. But he found an inventory of the goods 
and chattels of our great-grandfather, John Barton of Ive- 
Gill, a little hamlet about ^ye or seven miles from Carlisle ; 
by which it seems our progenitor was one of those truly 
patriarchal personages, a Cumbrian statesman — living on his 
o^Ti httle estate, and drawing from it all things needful for 
himself and his family. I will be bound for it my good 
brother was more gratified at finding his earliest traceable 
ancestor such an one than if he had found him in the college 
of heralds with gides j^urpure and argent emblazoned as his 
bearuigs. The total amount of his stock, independent o 
house, land, and any money he might have, seems by the 
valuation to have been £61 6s., and the copy of his admission 



X MEMOIR. 

to his little estate gives the fine as £5, so that I suppose its 
annual value was then estimated at £2 155. This was about 
a century back. Yet this man was the chief means of build- 
ing the little chapel in the dale, still standing. (He was a 
Churchman.) I doubt not he was a fine simple-hearted, 
noble-minded yeoman, in his day, and I am very proud of 
him. Why did his son, my grandfather, after whom I was 
named, ever leave that pleasant dale, and go and set up a 
manufactory in Carlisle ; inventing a piece of machinery * 
for which he had a medal from the Koyal Society ? — so says 
Pennant. Methinks he had better have abode in the old 
grey stone, slate-covered homestead on the banks of that 
pretty brooklet the Ive ! But I bear his name, so I will not 
quarrel with his memory." 

Thus far Bernard Barton traces the history of his family. 
And it appears that, as a mechanical genius drew his grand- 
father away from the pastoral life at Ive- Gill, so his father, 
who was of a literary turn, reconciled himself with difficulty 
to the manufactory he inherited at Carlisle. "I always," 
he wrote, " perused a Locke, an Addison, or a Pope, with 
delight,")* and ever sat down to my ledger with a sort of 
disgust;" and he at one time determined to quit a business 
in which he had been " neither successfully nor agreeably 
engaged," and become " a minister of some sect of religion — 
it will then be time," he says, " to determine of what sect, when 
I am enabled to judge of their respective merits. But this 
I will freely confess to you, that if there be any one of 
them, the tenets of which are more favourable to rational 
religion than the one in which I have been brought up, I 

* The manufactory was one of calico-printing. The "piece of 
machinery" is thns described by Pennant ; — '' Saw at Mr. Bernard 
Barton's a pleasing sight of twelve little girls spinning at once at a 
horizontal wheel, which set twelve bobbins in motion ; yet so con- 
trived, that should any accident happen to one, the motion of that 
might be stopped without any impediment to the others." 

f See an amusing account of his portrait, with his favourite books 
about him, painted about this time. Letter I. of this Collection. 



MEMOIR. XI 

shall be so far from thinking it a crime, that I cannot but 
consider it my duty to embrace it." This, however, was 
written when he was very young. He never gave up 
business, but changed one business for another, and shifted 
the scene of its transaction. His religious inquiries led to a 
more decided result. He very soon left the Church of Eng- 
land, and became a member of the Society of Friends. 

About the same time he married a Quaker lady, Mary 
Done, of a Cheshire family. She bore him several children : 
but only three lived to maturity ; two daughters, of whom 
the elder, Maria, distinguished herself, afterward, as the 
author of many useful children's books under her married 
name. Hack ; and one son, Bernard, the poet, who was born 
January 31, 1784. 

Shortly before Bernard's birth, however, John Barton 
had removed to London, where he engaged in something of 
the same business he had quitted at Carlisle, but where he 
probably found society and interests more suited to his taste. 
I do not know whether he ever acted as minister in his 
Society ; but his name appears on one record of their most 
valuable endeavours. The Quakers had from the very time 
of George Fox distinguished themselves by their opposition 
to slavery : a like feeling had gradually been growing up in 
other quarters of England; and in 1787 a mixed committee 
of twelve persons was appointed to promote the Abolition of 
the Slave-trade; Wilberforce engaging to second them with 
all his influence in parliament. Among these twelve stands 
the name of John Barton, in honourable companionship with 
that of Thomas Clarkson. 

" I lost my mother," again writes B. B., " when I was only 
a few days old ; and my father married again in my infancy 
80 wisely and so happily, that I knew not but his second wife 
was my own mother, till I learned it years after at a boarding 
school." The name of this amiable step-mother was Eliza- 
beth Home ; a Quaker also ; daughter of a merchant, who, 
with his house in London and villa at Tottenham, was an 
object of B. B.'s earliest regard and latest recollection. 
" Some of my first recollections," he wrote fifty years after, 

b 2 



XU MEMOIR. 

'' are, looking out of his parlour windows at Bankside on the 
busy Thames, with its ever-changing scene, and the dome of 
St. Paul's rising out of the smoke on the other side of the 
river. But my most delightful recollections of boyhood are 
connected with the fine old country-house in a green lane 
diverging from the high road which runs through Totten- 
ham. I would give seven years of life as it now is, for a week 
of that which I then led. It was a large old house, with an 
iron palisade and a pair of iron gates in front, and a huge 
stone eagle on each pier. Leading up to the steps by which 
you went up to the hall door, was a wide gravel walk, 
bordered in summer time by huge tubs, in which were orange 
and lemon trees, and in the centre of the grass-plot stood a 
tub yet huger, holding an enormous aloe. The hall itself, 
to my fancy then lofty and wide as a cathedral would seem 
now, was a famous place for battledore and shuttlecock ; and 
behind was a garden, equal to that of old Alcinous himself. 
My favourite walk was one of turf by a long strait pond, 
bordered with lime-trees. But the whole demesne was the 
fairy ground of my childhood ; and its presiding genius was 
grandpapa. He must have been a handsome man in his 
youth, for I remember him at nearly eighty, a very fine 
looking one, even in the decay of mind and body. In the 
morning a velvet cap ; by dinner, a flaxen wig ; and features 
always expressive of benignity and placid cheerfulness. 
When he walked out into the garden, his cocked hat and 
amber-headed cane completed his costume. To the recol- 
lection of this delightful personage, I am, I think, indebted 
for many soothing and pleasing associations with old age." 

John Barton did not live to see the only child — a son — 
that was born to him by this second marriage. He had some 
time before quitted London, and taken partnership in a 
malting business at Hertford, where he died, in the prime of 
life. After his death his widow returned to Tottenham, and 
there with her son and step-children continued for some 
time to reside. 

In due time, Bernard was sent to a much-esteemed Quaker 
school at Ipswich : returning always to spend his holidays at 



MEMOIR. Xlll 

Tottenham. "When fourteen years old, he was apprenticed 
to Mr. Samuel Jesup, a shopkeeper at Halstead in Essex. 
" There I stood," he writes, " for eight years behind the 
counter of the corner shop at the top of Halstead Hill, kept 
to this day" (Nov. 9, 1828) "by my old master, and still 
worthy uncle, S. Jesup." 

In 1806 he went to Woodbridge ; and a year after married 
Lucy Jesup, the niece of his former master, and entered into 
partnership with her brother as coal and corn merchant: 
But she died a year after marriage, in giving birth to the 
only child, who now survives them both ; and he, perhaps 
sickened with the scene of his blighted love,* and finding, 

* The following verses were published in his first volume : — 

thou from earth for ever fled ! 
Whose reliques lie among the dead, 
"With daisied verdure overspread, 

My Lucy ! 

For many a weary day gone by, 
How many a solitary sigh 

1 've heaved for thee, no longer nigh, 

My Lucy ! 

And if to grieve I cease awhile, 
I look for that enchanting smile 
Which all my cares coidd once beguile, 
My Lucy ! 

But ah ! in vain— the blameless art 
Which used to soothe my troubled heart 
Is lost with thee, my better part, 
My Lucy ! 

Thy converse, innocently free, 
That made the fiends of fancy flee, 
Ah then I feel the want of thee, 
My Lucy ! 

Nor is it for myself alone 
That I thy early death bemoan ; 
Our infant now is all my own, 
My Lucy ! 



XIV MEMOIR. 

like his father, that he had less taste for the ledger than for 
literature, almost directly quitted Woodbridge, and engaged 
himself as private tutor in the family of Mr. Waterhouse, a 
merchant in Liverpool. There Bernard Barton had some 
family connexions ; and there also he was kindly received 
and entertained by the Roscoe family, who were old acquaint- 
ances of his father and mother. 

After a year's residence in Liverpool, he returned to 
Woodbridge, and there became clerk in Messrs. Alexander's 
bank — a kind of office which secures certain, if small, remu- 
neration, without any of the anxiety of business ; and there 
he continued for forty years, working till within two days 
of his death. 

He had always been fond of books ; was one of the most 
active members of a Woodbridge Book Club, which he only 
retired from a month or two before he died ; and had written 
and sent to his friends occasional copies of verse. Li 1812 

Couldst thou a guardian angel proye 
To the dear offspring of our love, 
Until it reach the realms above, 
My Lucy ! 

Could thy angelic spirit stray. 
Unseen companion of my way, 
As onward drags the weary day, 
My Lucy ! 

And when the midnight hour shall close 
Mine eyes in short unsound repose, 
Couldst thou but whisper off my woes, 
My Lucy ! 

Then, though thy loss I must deplore, 
Till next we meet to part no more 
I 'd wait the grasp that from me tore 
My Lucy ! 

For, be my lifj hut spent like thine. 
With joy shall I that life resign, 
And fly to thee, for ever mine. 
My Lucy ! 



MEMOIR. Xy 

he published his first volume of Poems, called " Metrical 
Effusions," and began a correspondence with Southey, who 
continued to give him most kind and mse advice for many 
years. A complimentary copy of verses which he had ad- 
dressed to the author of the " Queen's Wake," (just then 
come into notice,) brought him long and vehement letters 
from the Ettrick Shepherd, full of thanks to Barton and 
praises of himself ; and along with all this, a tragedy " that 
will astonish the world ten times more than the ' Queen's 
Wake ' has done," a tragedy with so many characters in it 
of equal importance " that justice cannot be done it in Edin- 
burgh," and therefore the author confidentially intrusts it 
to Bernard Barton to get it represented in London. Thea- 
tres, and managers of theatres, being rather out of the Quaker 
poet's way, he called into council Capel Lofft, with whom 
he also corresponded, and from whom he received flying visits 
in the course of Lofi't's attendance at the county sessions. 
Lofft took the matter into consideration, and promised all 
assistance, but on the whole dissuaded Hogg from trying 
London managers ; he himself having sent them three tra- 
gedies of his own ; and others by friends of " transcendent 
merit, equal to Miss Baillie's," all of which had fallen on 
barren ground.* 

In 1818 Bernard Barton published by subscription a thin- 
4to volume — " Poems by an Amateur," — and shortly after- 
ward appeared under the auspices of a London publisher in 
a volume of " Poems," which, being favourably reviewed in 
the* Edinburgh, reached a fourth edition by 1825. Li 1822 
came out his " Xapoleon," which he managed to get dedi- 
cated and presented to George the Fourth. And now being 
launched upon the public with a favouring gale, he pushed 

* This was not B. B's nearest approach to theatrical honours. In 
1822, (jnst after the review on him in the Edinburgh,) his niece 
Elizabeth Hack writes to him, " Aunt Lizzy tells us, that when one 
of the Sharps was at Paris some Httle time ago, there was a party of 
English actors performing plays. One night he was in the theatre, 
and an actor of the name of Barton was announced, when the audi- 
ence called out to inquire if it was the Quaker poet." 



XVI MEMOIR. 

forward with an eagerness that was little to his ultimate ad- 
vantage. Between 1822 and 1828 he published five volumes 
of verse. Each of these contained many pretty poems ; but 
many that were very hasty, and written more as task- work, 
when the mind was already wearied with the desk-labours 
of the day ; * not waiting for the occasion to suggest, nor the 
impulse to improve. Of this he was warned by his friends, 
and of the danger of making himself too cheap with pub- 
lishers and the public. But the advice of others had little 
weight in the hour of success with one so inexperienced and 
so hopeful as himself. And there was in Bernard Barton a 
certain boyish impetuosity in pursuit of anything he had at 
heart, that age itself scarcely could subdue. Thus it was 
with his correspondence ; and thus it was with his poetry. 
He wrote always with great facility, almost unretarded by 
that worst labour of correction; for he was not fastidious 
himself about exactness of thought or of harmony of num- 
bers, and he could scarce comprehend why the public should 
be less easily satisfied. Or if he did labour — and labour he 
did at that time — still it was at task-work of a kind he liked* 
He loved poetry for its own sake, whether to read or to com- 
pose, and felt assured that he was employing his own talent 
in the cause of virtue and religion,^ and the blameless affec- 
tions of men. E'o doubt he also liked praise ; though not 
in any degree proportional to his eagerness in publishing ; 
but inversely, rather. Yery vain men are seldom so careless 
in the production of that from which they expect their re- 
ward. And Barton soon seemed to forget one book in the 
preparation of another ; and in time to forget the contents of 
all, except a few pieces that arose more directly from his 
heart, and so naturally attached themselves to his memory. 



* The " Poetic Vigils," published in 1824, have (he says in the 
Preface) ** at least this claim to the title given them, that they are 
the production of hours snatched from recreation or repose.'* 

t The '* Devotional Verses " (1827) were begun with a very seri- 
ous intention, and seem written carefully throughout, as became the 
subject. 



MEMOIR. XVll 

And there was in him one great sign of the absence of any 
inordinate vanity — the total want of envy. He was quite as 
anxious others should publish as himself; would never be- 
lieve there could be too much poetry abroad ; would scarce 
admit a fault in the verses of others, whether private friends 
or public authors, though after a while (as in his own case) 
his mind silently and unconsciously adopted only their better 
part. A much more likely motive for this mistaken activity 
of publication is, the desire to add to the slender income of his 
clerkship. For Bernard Barton was a generous, and not a 
provident man ; and, few and modest as were his wants, he 
did not usually manage to square them to the still narrower 
limit of his means. 

But apart from all these motives, the preparation of a book 
was amusement and excitement to one Avho had little enough 
of it in the ordinary course of daily life : treaties with pub- 
lishers — arrangements of printing — correspondence with 
friends on the subject — and, when the little volume was at 
last afloat, watching it for a while somewhat as a boy watches 
a paper boat committed to the sea. 

His health appears to have suffered from his exertions. 
He ^Tites to friends complaining of low spirits, head-ache, 
&c., the usual effect of sedentary habits, late hours, and over- 
tasked brain. Charles Lamb prescribed for him after his 
usual fashion : some grains of sterling available truth amid 
a heap of jests.* Southey replies more gravely, in a letter 
that should be read and marked by every student. 



* "You are too mucli apprehensive about your complaint. I 
know many that are alvrays ailing of it, and live on to a good old 
age. I Know a merry fellow (you partly know him) who, when his 
medical adviser told him he had drunk away all that part, con- 
gratulated himself (now his liver was gone) that he should be the 
longest liver of the two. The best way in these cases is to keep your- 
self as ignorant as you can — as ignorant as the world was before 
Galen — of the entire inner constructions of the animal man ; not to 
be conscious of a midriff; to hold kidneys (save of sheep and swine) 
to be an agreeable fiction ; not to know whereabouts the gall grows ; 
to account the circulation of the blood a mere idle whim of Harvey's ; 



XVlll MEMOIR. 



" Keswick, 27 Jan,y 1822. 

" I am much pleased with the ' Poet's Lot' — no, not with 
his lot, but with the verses in which he describes it. But 
let me ask you — are you not pursuing your studies intemper- 
ately, and to the danger of your health ? To be ' writing 
long after midnight ' and ' with a miserable head-ache ' is 
what no man can do with impunity ; and what no pressure 
of business, no ardour of composition, has ever made me do. 
I beseech you, remember the fate of Kirke White ; — and 
remember that if you sacrifice your health (not to say your 
life) in the same manner, you will be held up to your own 
community as a warning — not as an example for imitation. 
The spirit which disturbed poor Scott of Am well in his last 
illness will fasten upon your name ; and your fate will be 
instanced to prove the inconsistency of your pursuits with 
that sobriety and evenness of mind which Quakerism requires, 
and is intended to produce. — 

" You will take this as it is meant, I am sure. 

" My friend, go early to bed ; — and if you eat suppers, read 
afterwards, but never compose, that you may lie down with 
a quiet intellect. There is an intellectual as well as a reli- 



to acknowledge no mechanism not visible. For, once fix the seat of 
your disorder, and your fancies flux into it like so many bad hn- 
monrs. Those medical gentry choose each his favourite part, one 
takes the lungs — another the aforesaid liver, and refers to that what- 
ever in the animal economy is amiss. Above all, use exercise, take 
a little more spirituous liquors, learn to smoke, continue to keep a 
good conscience, and avoid tamperings with hard terms of art — vis- 
cosity, schirrosity, and those bugbears by which simple patients are 
scared into their graves. Believe the general sense of the mercantile 
world, which holds that desks are not deadly. It is the mind, good 
B. B., and not the hmbs, that taints by long sitting. Think of 
the patience of tailors — think how long the Lord Chancellor sits — 
think of the brooding hen." 



MEMOIR. XIX 

gious peace of mind ; — and without the former, be assured 
there can be no health for a poet. God bless you. 

Yours very truly, 

E. SOUTHEY." 

While IVIr. Barton's poetical labours affected his health, 
the first success of them for a time disconcerted him with his 
clerkship ; though neither injured health, nor hope deferred, 
ever overshadowed his social good humour, or discovered 
themselves in repining. At one time he expected something 
from Royal patronage, at another proposed to undertake the 
Editorship of the poetical department of a Magazine. Xay, he 
even thought of quitting the bank and Woodbridge alto- 
gether, and trusting to his pen for subsistence : an unwise 
scheme in all men : most unwise in one who had so little 
authorly tact as himself. From this, however, he was for- 
tunately diverted by all the friends to whom he communi- 
cated his design.* Charles Lamb's letter on the subject is 
well known : — 



* So long ago as the date of his first Yolume he had written to Lord 
Byron on the subject ; who thus answered him : — 

" St. James's Street, June 1, 1812. 
'* Sm, 

The most satisfactoiy answer to the concluding part of j'our 
letter is, that Mr. Murray will re-publish your volume if you still 
retain your inclination for the experiment, which I trust will be suc- 
cessful. Some weeks ago m}' friend Mr. Rogers showed me some of 
the Stanzas in MS., and I then expressed my opinion of their merit, 
which a further peinisal of the printed yolume has given me no reason 
to revoke. I mention this as it may not be disagreeable to you to learn 
that I entertained a very favourable opinion of your power before 

I was aware that such sentiments were reciprocal.^ ^Vaving your 

obhging expressions as to my own productions, for which I thank 
you very sincerely, and assure you that I think not lightly of the 
praise of one whose approbation is valuable ; will you allow me to 
talk to you candidly, not critically, on the subject of yours ? — You 
will not suspect me of a wish to discourage, since I pointed out to the 
publisher the propriety of complying with your wishes. I think 



XX MEMOIR. 



'' 9th January, 1823. 

" Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan 
of support beyond what the chance employ of booksellers 
would afford you ! ! ! 

" Throw yourself rather, my dear Sir, from the steep Tar- 
peian rock, slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. K you 
have but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the 
bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather 
than turn slave to the booksellers. They are Turks and 
Tartars when they have poor authors at their beck. Hi- 
therto you have been at arm's length from them. Come 
not within their grasp. I have known many authors want 
for bread — some repining — others enjoying the blest security 
of a counting-house — all agreeing they had rather have been 

more highly of your poetical talents than it would perhaps gratify 
you to hear expressed, for I believe, from what I observe of your 
mind, that you are above flattery. — To come to the point, you de- 
serve success ; but we knew before Addison wrote his Cato, that de- 
sert does not always command it. But suppose it attained — 

* You know what ills the author's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.' — 

Do not renounce writing, but never trust entirely to authorship. If 
you have a profession, retain it, it will be Hke Prior's fellowship, a 
last and sure resource. — Compare Mr. Rogers with other authors of 
the day ; assuredly he is among the first of Hving poets, but is it to 
that he owes his station in society and his intimacy in the best cir- 
cles ? no, it is to his prudence and respectability. The world (a bad 
one I own) courts him because he has no occasion to court it. — He is a 
poet, nor is he less so because he was something more. — I am not sorry 
to hear that you are not tempted by the vicinity of Capel Lofft, Esq., 
though if he had done for you what he has for the Bloomfields I 
should never have laughed at his rage for patronizing. — But a truly 
well constituted mind will ever be independent.— That you may be 
so is my sincere wish ; and if others think as well of your poetry as I 
do, you will have no cause to complain of your readers. — Believe me, 

Your obliged and obedient Servant, 

Byron.'* 



MEMOIR. XXI 

tailors, weavers, — what not ? — rather than the things they 
were. I have known some starved, some to go mad, one dear 
friend literally dying in a workhouse. You know not what 
a rapacious, dishonest set these booksellers are. Ask even 
Sou they, who (a single case almost) has made a fortune by 
book -drudgery, what he has found them. O you know not, 
may you never know ! the miseries of subsisting by author- 
ship ! 'Tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours or 
mine ; but a slavery worse than all slavery, to be a book- 
seller's dependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale and 
breasts of mutton, to change your free thoughts and volun- 
tary numbers for ungracious task- work. The booksellers 
hate us. The reason I take to be, that, contrary to other 
trades, in which the master gets all the credit, (a jeweller or 
silversmith for instance,) and the journeyman, who really 
does the fine work, is in the background : in ow work the 
world gives all the credit to W5, whom they consider as their 
journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, 
and oppress us, and would wring the blood of us out, to put 
another sixpence in their mechanic pouches. 

****** 

" Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust 
not to the public : you may hang, starve, drown yourself 
for anything that worthy personage cares. I bless every 
star that Providence, not seeing good to make me independ- 
ent, has seen it next good to settle me upon the stable found- 
ation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B. B., in the banking 
office : what ! is there not from six to eleven, p. m., six days 
in the week, and is there not all Sunday ? Fie, what a su- 
perfluity of man's time, if you could think so ! Enough for 
relaxation, mirth, converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet 
thoughts. O the corroding, torturing, tormenting thoughts 
that disturb the brain of the unlucky mght, who must draw 
upon it for daily sustenance ! Henceforth I retract all my 
fond complaints of mercantile employment — ^look upon them 
as lovers' quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome 
dead tunber of a desk that gives me life. A little grumbling 
is a wholesome medicine for the spleen, but in my inner 



XXll MEMOIR. 

heart do I approve and embrace this our close but unha- 
rassing way of life. I am quite serious. 

Yours truly, 

C.Lamb." 

In 1824, however, his income received a handsome addition 
from another quarter. A few members of his Society, in- 
cluding some of the wealthier of his own family, raised £1200 
among them for his benefit. Mr. Shewell of Ipswich, who was 
one of the main contributors to this fund, writes to me that the 
scheme originated with Joseph John Gurney : — " one of those 
innumerable acts of kindness and beneficence which marked 
his character, and the measure of which will never be known 
upon the earth." JN^or was the measure of it known in this 
instance ; for of the large sum that he handed in as the sub- 
scription of several, Mr. Shewell thinks he was "a larger 
donor than he chose to acknowledge." The money thus 
raised was vested in the name of Mr. Shewell, and its yearly 
interest paid to Bernard Barton; till, in 1839, the greater 
part of it was laid out in buying that old house and the land 
round it, which Mr. Barton so much loved as the habitation 
of his wife's mother, Martha Jesup.* 

It seems that he felt some delicacy at first in accepting 
the munificent testimony which his own people offered to his 
talents. But here again Lamb assisted him with plain, sin- 
cere, and wise advice. 



" March 2ith, 1824. 
" Dear B. B., 

I hasten to say that if my opinion can strengthen 
you in your choice, it is decisive for your acceptance of what 
has been so handsomely offered. I can see nothing injurious 
to your most honourable sense. Think that you are called 
to a poetical ministry — nothing worse — the minister is wor- 
thy of his hire. 

* See Letter to Mrs. Sutton, p. 35. 



MEMOIR. XXIU 

" The only objection I feel is founded on a fear that the 
acceptance may be a temptation to you to let fall the bone 
(hard as it is) which is in your mouth, and must afford 
tolerable pickings, for the shadow of independence. You 
cannot propose to become independent on what the low state 
of interest could afford you from such a principal as you 
mention ; and the most graceful excuse for the acceptance 
would be, that it left you free to your voluntary functions : 
that is the less light part of the scruple. It has no darker 
shade. I put in darker, because of the ambiguity of the 
word light, which Donne, m his admirable poem on the 
Metempsychosis, has so ingeniously illustrated m his invoca- 
tion — 

* Make my dark heavy poem light and light—' 

where the two senses of light are opposed to different oppo- 
sites. A trifling criticism. — I can see no reason for any scru- 
ple then but what arises from your own interest ; which is in 
your own power, of course, to solve. If you still have 
doubts, read over Sanderson's ' Cases of Conscience,' and 
Jeremy Taylor's 'Ductor Dubitantium ; ' the first a moderate 
octavo, the latter a folio of nine hundred close pages : and 
when you have thoroughly digested the admirable reasons 
pro and con which they give for every possible case, you will 

be ^just as wise as when you began. Every man is his own 

best casuist ; and, after all, as Ephraim Smooth, m the plea- 
sant comedy of Wild Oats, has it, ' There is no harm in a 
guinea.' A fortiori, there is less in two thousand. 

*'I therefore most sincerely congratulate with you, ex- 
cepting so far as excepted above. If you have fair prospects 
of adding to the principal, cut the bank; but in either case, 
do not refuse an honest service. Your heart tells you it is 
not offered to bribe you fro?n any duty, but to a duty which 
you feel to be your vocation. 

Farewell heartily, 

C. L." 

'While IMr. Barton had been busy ]3u^blishing, his corre- 
spondence with literary people had greatly increased. The 



XXIV MEMOIR. 

drawers and boxes which at last received the overflowings 
of his capacious Quaker pockets, (and he scarcely ever de- 
stroyed a letter,) contain a multitude of letters from authors 
dead or living. Beside those from Southey and Lamb, there 
are many from Charles Lloyd — simple, noble, and kind, tell- 
ing of his many Poems — of a Romance in six volumes he 
was then copying out with his own hand for the seventh 
time; — from old Lloyd, the father, into whose hands Bar- 
ton's letters occasionally fell by mistake, telling of his son's 
many books, but "that it is easier to write them than to 
gain numerous readers;" — from old Mr. Plumptre, who 
mourns the insensibility of publishers to his castigated edi- 
tions of Gay and Dibdin — leaving one letter midway, to go 
to his " spring task of pruning the gooseberries and cur- 
rants." There are also girlish letters from L. E. L. ; and 
feminine ones from Mrs. Hemans. Of living authors there 
are many letters from Mitford, Bowring, Conder, IVirs. Opie, 
C. B. Tayler, the Howitts, &c. 

Owing to Mr. Barton's circumstances, his connexion with 
most of these persons was solely by letter. He went indeed 
occasionally to Hadleigh, where Dr. Drake then flourished, 
and IVIr. Tayler was curate ; — ^to Mr. Mitford's at Benhall;* 



* Here is one of the notes that used to call B. B. to Benhall 
in those days. 

" Benhall, 1820. 
** My dear Poet, 

"VVe got yonr note to-day. "We are at home and shall be 
glad to see you, but hope you will not swim here ; in other words, we 
think it better that you should wait, till we can seat you under a 
chestnut and listen to your oracular sayings. We hope that, like 
your sister of the woods, you are in full song ; she does not print, I 
think ; we hope you do ; seeing that you beat her in sense, though 
she has a little the advantage in melody. Together you will make a 
pretty duet in our groves. You have both your defects ; she devours 
glow-worms, you take snuff; she is in a great hurry to go away, and 
you are prodigious slow in arriving ; she sings at night, when no- 
body can hear her, and you write for Ackermann, which nobody 
thinks of readinsr. In spite of all this, you will get a hundred a 



MEMOIR. XXV 

— and he visited Charles Lamb once or t^Yice in London and 
at Islington. He once also met Southey at Thomas Clark- 
son's at Playford, in the spring of 1824. But the rest of 
the persons whose letters I have just mentioned, I believe 
he never saw. And thus perhaps he acquired a habit of 
writing that supplied the place of personal intercourse. 
Confined to a tOAvn where there was but little stirring in 
the literary way, he naturally travelled out of it by letter, 
for communication on those matters ; and this habit gradu- 
ally extended itself to acquaintances not literary, whom he 
seemed as happy to converse with through the post-office 
as face to face. His correspondence vdih Mr. Clemisha 
arose out of their meeting once, and once only, by chance 
in the commercial room of an inn. And with Mrs. Sut- 
ton, who, beside other matters of interest, could tell him 
about the " [N'orth Countrie," from which his ancestors came, 
and which he always loved in fancy, (for he never saw it,) 
— he kept up a correspondence of nearly thirty years, though 
he and she never met to realize their visionary conceptions 
of one another. 

From the year 1828, his books, as well as his correspond- 
ence mth those "whose talk was of" books, declined; and 
soon after this he seemed to settle down contentedly into that 
quiet course of life in which he continued to the end. His 
literary talents, social amiability, and blameless character, 
made him respected, liked, and courted among his neigh- 
bours. Few, high or low, but were glad to see him at his 
customary place in the bank, from which he smiled a kindly 
greeting, or came down with friendly open hand, and some 
frank words of family inquiry — perhaps with the offer of a 
pinch from his never-failing snuff-box — or the withdraAvai 
of the visitor, if more intimate, to see some letter or copy of 
verses, just received or just composed, or some picture just 

year from the king, and settle at Woodbridge ; in another month, she 
will find no more flies, and set off for Egypt. 

Truly 3^ours, 

J. M." 



XXVI MEMOIR. 

purchased. Few, high or low, but were glad to have him at 
their tables ; where he was equally pleasant and equally 
pleased, whether with the fine folks at the Hall, or with 
the homely company at the Farm ; carrying every where 
indifferently the same good feeling, good spirits, and good 
manners ; and by a happy frankness of nature, that did 
not too precisely measure its utterance on such occasions, 
checkering the conventional gentility of the drawing-room 
with some humours of humbler life, which in turn he 
refined with a sprinkling of literature. — ISTow too, after 
having long lived in a house that was just big enough to sit 
and sleep in, while he was obliged to board with the ladies 
of a Quaker school over the way,* he obtained a convenient 
house of his own, where he got his books and pictures 
about him. But, more than all this, his daughter was now 
grown up to be his housekeeper and companion. And ami- 
able as Bernard Barton was in social life, his amiability in 
this little Ute-d-tete household of his was yet a fairer thing to 
behold ; so completely was all authority absorbed into con- 
fidence, and into love — 

'* A constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
Ne'er ronghen'd by those cataracts and breaks 
That humour interposed too often makes," 

but gliding on uninterruptedly for twenty years, until death 
concealed its current from all human witness. 

In earlier life Bernard Barton had been a fair pedestrian ; 
and was fond of walking over to the house of his friend 
Arthur Biddell at Playford. There, beside the instructive 
and agreeable society of his host and hostess, he used to 
meet George Airy, now Astronomer Royal, then a lad of 
wonderful promise ; with whom he had many a discussion 
about poetry, and Sir Walter's last new novel, a volume 

* Where he writes a letter one day, but he knows not if intelli- 
gibly; '^ for all hands are husy round me to clap, to starch, to iron, 
to plait — in plain English, *tis washing-day ; and I am now writing 
close to a table on which is a bason of starch, caps, kerchiefe, &c., and 
busy hands and tongues round it.'* 



MEMOIR. XXVll 

of which perhaps the poet had brought in his pocket. Mr, 
Biddell, at one tune, lent him a horse to expedite his jour- 
neys to and fro, and to refresh him with some wholesome 
change of exercise. But of that Barton soon thed. He 
gradually got to dislike exercise very much ; and no doubt 
greatly injured his health by its disuse. But it was not to 
be wondered at, that having spent the day in the uncongenial 
task of " figure-work," as he called it, he should covet his 
evenings for books, or verses, or social intercourse.* Lat- 
terly it was very difficult to get him out even for a stroll in 
the garden after dinner, or along the banks of his favourite 
Deben on a summer evening. He would, after going a 
little way, with much humorous grumblmg at the useless 
fatigue he was put to endure, stop short of a sudden, and, 
sitting down in the tall grass by the river-side, watch the 
tide run past, and the long -remembered vessels gliding into 
harbour, or dropping down to pursue their voyage under 
the stars at sea, until his companions, returning from their 
prolonged walk, drew him to his feet again, to saunter 
homeward far more willingly than he set forth, with the 
prospect of the easy chair, the book, and the cheerful sup- 
per before hun. 

His excursions rarely extended beyond a few miles round 
Woodbridge — to the vale of Dedham, Constable's birth-place 
and painting-room ; or to the neighbouring sea-coast, loved 
for its own sake — and few could love the sea and the heaths 
beside it better than he did — but doubly dear to him from 
its association with the memory and poetry of Crabbe. Once 
or twice he went as far as Hampshire on a visit to his 
brother ; and once he visited ]\Ir. W. B. Donne, at Mattishall, 
in Norfolk, where he saw many portraits and mementoes 
of his favourite poet Cowper, IMr. Donne's kinsman. Among 
these, that which most interested him was ]\irs. Bodham, 
ninety years old, and almost blind, but with all the courtesy 
of the old school about her — once the " Eose " whom 
Cowper had played with at Catfield parsonage when both 

* Some of these social evenings are pleasantly described, p. 194, 

c 2 



XXVm MEMOIR. 

were children together, and whom until 1790, when she 
revived their acquaintance by sending him his mother's pic- 
ture, he had thought " withered and fallen from the stalk." 
Such little excursions it might be absurd to record of other 
men ; but they were some of the few that Bernard Barton 
could take, and from their rare occurrence, and the sim- 
plicity of his nature, they made a strong impression upon 
him. 

He still continued to write verses, as well on private occa- 
sions as for annuals ; and in 1836 published another volume, 
chiefly composed of such fragments. In 1845 came out his 
last volume; which he got permission to dedicate to the 
Queen. He sent also a copy of it to Sir Eobert Peel, then 
prime minister, Avith whom he had already corresponded 
slightly on the subject of the income tax, which he thought 
pressed rather unduly on clerks, and others, whose narrow 
income was only for life. Sir Robert asked him to dinner 
at WhitehalL — " Twenty years ago," writes Barton, " such 
a summons had elated and exhilarated m.e — now I feel 
humbled and depressed at it. Why ? — but that I verge on 
the period when the lighting down of the grasshopper is a 
burden, and desire itself begins to fail." — He went, however, 
and was sincerely pleased Avith the courtesy, and astonished 
at the social ease, of a man who had so many and so heavy 
cares on his shoulders. When the Quaker poet was first 
ushered into the room, there were but three guests as- 
sembled, of whom he little expected to know one. But the 
mutual exclamations of "George Airy!" and "Bernard 
Barton ! " soon satisfied Sir Robert as to his country guest's 
feeling at home at the great town dinner. 

On leaving ofiice a year after. Sir Robert recommended 
him to the queen for an annual pension of £100 : — one of 
the last acts, as the retiring minister intimated, of his official 
career, and one he should always reflect on vdth pleasure. 
— B. Barton gratefully accepted the boon. And to the very 
close of life he continued, after his fashion, to send letters 
and occasional poems to Sir Robert, and never failed to re- 
ceive a few kind words in reply. 



MEMOIR. XXIX 

In 1844 died Bernard's eldest sister, Maria Hack. She 
was five or six years older than himself ; very like him in 
the face ; and had been his instructress (" a sort of oracle to 
me, " he says) Avhen both were children. " It is a heavy 
blow to me," he Avrites, " for Maria is almost the first human 
being I remember to have fondly loved, or been fondly loved 
by — the only living participant in my first and earliest re- 
collections. When I lose her, I had almost as well never 
have been a child ; for she only knew me as such — and the 
best and brightest of memories are apt to grow dim when 
they can be no more reflected." " She was just older enough 
than I," he elsewhere says, " to recollect distinctly what I 
have a confused glimmering of — about our house at Hert- 
ford — even of hers at Carlisle." 

jMr. Barton had for many years been an oAling man, 
though he never was, I believe, danger oushj ill (as it is called) 
till the last year of his life. He took very little care of 
himself ; laughed at all rules of diet, except temperance ; 
and had for nearly forty years, as he said, " taken almost as 
little exercise as a mile-stone, and far less fresh air." Some 
years before his death he had been warned of a liability to 
disease in the heart, an intimation he did not regard, as he 
never felt pain in that quarter. Xor did he to this refer the 
increased distress he began to feel in exertion of any kind, 
walking fast or up-stairs, a distress which he looked upon as 
the disease of old age, and which he used to give vent to in 
half-humorous groans, that seemed to many of his friends 
rather expressive of his dislike to exercise, than implying 
any serious inconvenience from it. But probably the disease 
that partly arose from inactivity now became the true apology 
for it. During the last year of his life, too, some loss of his 
little fortune, and some perplexity in his afiairs, not so dis- 
tressing because of any present inconvenience to himself, as 
in the prospect of future evil to one whom he loved as him- 
self, may have aggravated the malady within him,, and hast- 
ened its final bloAv. 

Toward the end of 1848 the evil symptoms increased 
much upon him ; and, shortly after Christmas, it was found 



XXX MEMOIR. 

that the disease was far advanced. He consented to have 
his diet regulated ; protesting humorously against the small 
glass of small beer allowed him in place of the temperate 
allowance of generous port, or ale, to which he was accus- 
tomed. He fulfilled his daily duty in the bank,* only remit- 
ting (as he was peremptorily bid) his attendance there after 
his four o'clock dinner.f And though not able to go out to 
his friends, he was glad to see them at his own house to 
the last. 

Here is a letter, written a few days before his death, to 
one of his kindest and most hospitable friends. 



**2 mo, 14, 1849. 
" My dear old Friend, 

Thy home-brewed has been duly received, and I 
drank a glass yesterday with relish, but I must not indulge 
too often — for I make slow way, if any, toward recovery, 
and at times go on puffing, panting, groaning, and making 
a variety of noises, not unlike a loco-motive at first starting ; 
more to give vent to my own discomfort, than for the de- 
lectation of those around me. So I am not fit to go into 
company, and cannot guess when I shall. However, I am 
free from much acute suffering, and not so much hypp'd as 



* He had written of himself, some years before, " I shall go on 
making figures till Death makes me a cipher." 

t For which he half accused himself as " a skulker,*^ And of late 
years, when th.e day account of the bank had not come quite right by 
the usual hour of closing, and it seemed necessary to carry on busi- 
ness late into the evening, he would sometimes come up wearied to 
his room, saying — " Well, we 've got all right but a shilling, and I 've 
left my boys " (as he called the younger clerks) " to puzzle that out." 
But even then he would get up from " Rob Roy," or the 'Antiquary," 
every now and then, and go to peep through the curtain of a window 
that opens upon the back of the bank, and, if he saw the great gas- 
lamp flaming within, announce with a half comical sympathy, that 
" they were still at it ; " or, when the lamp was at last extinguished, 
would return to his chair more happily, now that his partners were 
liberated. 



MEMOIB. XXXI 

mio'ht be forociven in a man who has such trouble about his 
breathing that it naturally puts him on thinking how long 
he may be able to breathe at all. But if the hairs of one's 
head are numbered, so, by a parity of reasoning, are the puffs 
of our bellows. I write not in levity, though I use homely 

words. I do not think J sees any present cause of 

serious alarm, but I do not think he sees, on the other hand, 
much prospect of speedy recovery, if of entire recovery at 
all. The thing has been coming on for years ; and cannot 
be cured at once, if at all. A man can't poke over desk or 
table for forty years without putting some of the machinery 
of the chest out of sorts. As the evenings get warm and 
light we shall see what gentle exercise and a little fresh air 
can do. In the last few days too I have been in solicitude 
about a little pet niece of mine dying, if not dead, at York : 
this has somewhat worried me, and agitation or excitement 
is as bad for me as Avork or quickness of motion. Yet, 
after all, I have really more to be thankful for than to 
grumble about. I have no very acute pain, a skeely doctor, 
a good nurse, kind solicitous friends, a remission of the worst 
part of my desk hours — so why should I fret ? Love to 
the younkers. 

Thine, 

B." 



On Monday, February 19, he was unable to get into 
the bank, having passed a very unquiet night — the first 
night of distress, he thankfully said, that his illness had 
caused him. He suffered during the day ; but welcomed as 
usual the friends who came to see him as he lay on his 
sofa ; and wrote a few Jiotes — for his correspondence must 
now, he humorously lamented, become as short-breathed 
as himself. In the evening, at half-past eight, as he was yet 
conversing cheerfully with a friend, he rose up, went to his 
bed-room, and suddenly rang the beU. He was found by 



XXXll MEMOIR. 



his daughter — dying. Assistance was sent for ; but all as- 
sistance was vain. " In a few minutes more,'' says the note 
despatched from the house of death that night, " all distress 
was over on his part — and that warm, kind heart is still 
for ever.'* 

On Monday, February the 26th, his body, followed by many 
friends of several classes and creeds, was borne to the little 
cemetery belonging to the Woodbridge Meeting-house, and 
there, amid the affecting stillness of the Quaker observance, 
broken only by the warning voice of one reverend Elder, that 
" All was vanity," lowered into its place. There the kindly 
poet sleeps ; separated but a little from the wife he lost in his 
youth ; so little from the mother-in-law he cherished in his 
age, that the acacia he had a few years before planted to dis- 
tinguish her grave, even now begins to wave over his own. 



The Letters and Poems that follow are very faithful re- 
velations of Bernard Barton's soul ; of the genuine piety 
to God, good- will to men, and cheerful, guileless spirit, which 
animated him, not only while writing in the undisturbed 
seclusion of the closet, but (what is a very different matter) 
throughout the walk and practice of daily life. They prove 
also his intimate acquaintance with the Bible, and his deep 
appreciation of many passages which might escape a com- 
mon reader. 

The Letters show, that while he had well considered, and 
well approved, the pure principles of Quakerism, he was 
equally liberal in his recognition of other forms of Chris- 
tianity. He could attend the chuyxh^ or the chapel^ if the 
7neetmg were not at hand ; and once assisted in raising money 
to build a new Established Church in Woodbridge. And 
while he was sometimes roused to defend Dissent from the 



MEMOIR. XXXlll 

vulgar attacks of High Church and Tory," he could also 
give the bishops a good word when they were unjustly as- 
sailed from another quarter. 

While duly conforming to the usages of his Society on 
all proper occasions, he could forget thee and thou while 
mixing m social mtercourse with people of another vocabu- 
lary, and smile at the Reviewer who reproved him for using 



* Here are two little Epigrams showing tliat the quiet Quaker 
could strike, though he was seldom provoked to do so. 

DR. E . 



" A bullying, brawling champion of the Church ; 

Yain as a parrot screaming on her perch ; 

And, like that parrot, screaming out by rote 

The same stale, flat, unprofitable note ; 

Still interrupting all discreet debate 

With one eternal cry of ' Church and State ! ' — 

"With all the High Tory's ignorance, increased 

By all the arrogance that marks the priest ; 

One who declares upon his solemn word. 

The voluntary system is absurd : 

He well may say so ; — for 'twere hard to tell 

"Who would support him, did not law compel." 



On one who declared in a public speech — *' This was the opinion 
he had formed of the Dissenters ; he only saw in them wolves in 
sheep's clothing." 

" ' Wolves in sheep's clothing !' bitter words and big ; 

But who apphes them ? first the speaker scan ; 
A suckling Tory ! an apostate Whig ! 

Indeed, a very silly, weak young man ! 

" What such an one may either think or say, 

With sober people matters not one pin ; 
In their opinion, his ov>m senseless bray 

Proves him the ass wkapt in a lion's skin.'* 



XXXIV MEMOIR. 

the heathen name November in his Poems. " I find," he 
said, " these names of the months the prescriptive dialect of 
'poetry, used as such by many members of our Society be- 
fore me — ' sans peur et sans reproche ; ' and I use th em 
accordingly, asking no questions for conscience' sake, as 
to their origin. Yet while I do this, I can give my cordial 
tribute of approval to the scruples of our early friends, 
who advocate a simpler nomenclature. I can quite un- 
derstand and respect their simplicity and godly sincerity; 
and I conceive that I have duly shown my reverence for their 
scruples in adhering personally to their dialect, and only using 
another poetically. Ask the British Friend the name of the 
planet with a belt round it, and he would say, Saturn ; at 
the peril, and on the pain, of excommunication." 

As to his politics, he always used to call himself " a "Whig 
of the old school." Perhaps, like most men in easy circum- 
stances, he grew more averse to change as he grew older. 
He writes to a friend in 1 845, during the heats occasioned 
by the proposed grant to Maynooth : — " Queer times these, 
and strange events. I feel most shamefully indifferent about 
the whole affair : but my political fever has long since spent 
itself. It was about its height when they sent Burdett to 
the Tower. It has cooled down wonderfully since then. 
He went there, to the best of my recollection, in the cha- 
racter of Burns's Sir William Wallace — 

* Great patriot kero — ill-requited chief; '— 

and dwindled down afterwards to ' Old Glory.' ]N'o more 
patriots for me." But Bernard Barton did not trouble him- 
self much about politics. He occasionally grew interested 
when the interests of those he loved were at stake ; and 
his affections generally guided his judgment. Hence he was 
always against a Repeal of the Corn Laws, because he loved 
Suffolk farmers, Suffolk labourers, and Suffolk fields. Occa- 
sionally he took part in the election of a friend to Parliament 
— writing in prose or verse in the county papers. And here 
also, though he more willingly sided with the Liberal in- 



MEMOIR. XXXV 

terest, he Avould put out a hand to help the good old Tory 
at a pinch. 

He was equally tolerant of men, and free of acquaint- 
ance. So long as they were honest, (and he was slow to sus- 
pect them to be otherwise,) and reasonably agreeable, (and 
he was easily pleased,) he could find company in them. 
" My temperament," he writes, " is, as far as a man can judge 
of himself, eminently social. I am wont to live out of my- 
self, and to cling to anything or anybody loveable within 
my reach." I have before said that he was equally welcome 
and equally at ease, whether at the Hall or at the Farm ; 
himself indifferent to rank, though he gave every one his 
title, not wondering even at those of his own community, 
who, unmindful perhaps of the military implication, owned 
to the soft impeachment of Esquire. But no where was he 
more amiable than in some of those humbler meetings — 
about the fire in the 'keeping-room at Christmas, or under 
the walnut-tree in summier. He had his cheerful remem- 
brances Avith the old ; a playful word for the young — espe- 
cially with children, whom he loved and was loved by. — Or, 
on some sumimer afternoon, perhaps, at the little inn on the 
heath, or by the river-side — or when, after a pleasant pic-nic 
on the sea-shore, we drifted homeward up the river, while 
the breeze died away at sunset, and the heron, at last startled 
by our gliding boat, slowly rose from the ooze over Avhich 
the tide was momentarily encroaching. 

By nature, as well as by discipline perhaps, he had a great 
dislike to violent occasions of feeling and manifestations of it, 
whether in real life or story. Many years ago he entreated 
the author of " May you like it," who had written some tales 
of powerful interest, to write others " where the appeals to 
one's feelings were perhaps less frequent — I mean one's sym- 
pathetic feelings with suffering virtue — and the more plea- 
surable emotions called forth by the spectacle of quiet, unob- 
trusive, domestic happiness more dwelt on." And when IMr. 
Tayler had long neglected to answer a letter. Barton drolly 
proposed to rob him on the highway, in hopes of recovering 
by crime an interest which he supposed every-day good con- 



XXXVl MEMOIR. 

duct had lost. Even in Walter Scott, his great favourite, 
he seemed to relish the humorous parts more than the pa- 
thetic; — Baillie Mcol Jarvie's dilemmas at Glennaquoich- 
rather than Fergus Mac Ivor's trial; and Oldbuck and his 
sister Grizel rather than the fisherman's funeral. Indeed, 
many, I dare say, of those who only know Barton by his 
poetry, will be surprised to hear how much humour he had 
in himself, and how much he relished it in others. Espe- 
cially, perhaps, in later life, when men have commonly had 
quite enough of " domestic tragedy," and are glad to laugh 
when they can. 

With little critical knowledge of pictures, he w^as very 
fond of them, especially such as represented scenery familiar 
to him — the shady lane, the open heath, the harvest-field, 
the village, the sea-shore. And he loved after coming away 
from the bank to sit in his room and watch the twilight steal 
over his landscapes as over the real face of nature, and then 
lit up again by fire or candle light. Nor could any itinerant 
picture -dealer pass Mr. Barton's door without calling to 
tempt him to a new purchase. And then was B. B. to be 
seen, just come up from the bank, with broad-brim and 
spectacles on, examining some picture set before him on a 
chair in the most advantageous light ; the dealer recommend- 
ing, and Barton wavering ; until partly by money, and partly 
by exchange of some older favourites — with perhaps a snuff- 
box thrown in to turn the scale — a bargain was concluded — 
generally to B. B.'s great disadvantage and great content. 
Then friends were called in to admire ; and letters written 
to describe ; and the picture taken up to his bed-room to be 
seen by candle light on going to bed, and by the morning 
sun on awaking ; then hung up in the best place in the best 
room ; till in time perhaps it was itself exchanged away for 
some newer favourite. 

He was not learned — in language, science, or philosophy. 
Nor did he care for the loftiest kinds of poetry — " the he- 
roics," as he called it. His favourite authors were those who 
deal most in humour, good sense, domestic feeling, and pas- 
toral description — Goldsmith, Cowper, Wordsworth in his 



MEMOIR. XXX VU 



lowlier moods, and Crabbe. One of his fayourite prose books 
was Boswell's Johnson ; of which he knew all the good things 
by heart, an inexhaustible store for a country dinner-table.* 
And many will long remember him as he used to sit at table, 
his snuff-box in his hand, and a glass of genial wine before 
him, repeating some favourite passage, and glancing his fine 
brown eyes about him as he recited. 

But perhaps his favourite prose book was Scott's Xovels. 
These he seemed never tired of readmg, and hearing read. 
During the last four or five winters I have gone through 
several of the best of these with him — generally on one night 
in each week — Saturday night, that left him free to the pros- 
pect of Sunday's relaxation. Then was the volume taken 
down hnpatiently from the shelf, and dilatory tea-drinkers 
chided ; and at last, when the room was clear, candles snuffed, 
and fire stuTed, he would read out, or listen to, those fine 
stories, anticipating with a glance of the eye, or an ejaculation 
of pleasure, the good things he knew were coming — ^^vhich 
he liked all the better for knowing they were coming — re- 
lishing them afresh in the fresh enjoyment of his companion, 
to whom they were less familiar ; until the modest supper 
coming in closed the book, and recalled him to his cheerful 
hospitahty. 



Of the literary merits of this volume, others, less biassed 
than myself by personal and local regards, will better judge. 
But the Editor, to whom, as well as the Memoir, the task of 
making any observations of this kind usually falls, has de- 
sired me to say a few words on the subject. 



* He ijsed to look with some admiration at an ancient fellow- 
townsman, who, beside a rich fund of Snfi'olk stories vested in him, 
had once seen Dr. Johnson alight fi'om a hackney-coach at the Mitre. 



XXXVill MEMOIR. 

The Letters, judging from internal evidence as well as 
from all personal knowledge of the author's habits, were for 
the most part written off with the same careless ingenuousness 
that characterized his conversation. " I have no alterna- 
tive," he said, "between not writing at all, and writing 
what first comes into my head." In both cases the same 
cause seems to me to produce the same agreeable effect. 

The Letters on graver subjects are doubtless the result 
of graver " foregone conclusion," — but equally spontaneous in 
point of utterance, without any effort at style whatever. 

If the Letters here published are better than the mass 
of those they are selected from, it is because better topics 
happened to present themselves to one who, though he 
wrote so much, had perhaps as little of new or animating to 
write about as most men. 

The Poems, if not written off as easily as the Letters, 
were probably as little elaborated as any that ever were 
published. Without claiming for them the highest attri- 
butes of poetry, (which the author never pretended to,) we 
may surely say they abound in genuine feeling and elegant 
fancy expressed in easy, and often very felicitous, verse. 
These qualities employed in illustrating the religious and 
domestic affections, and the pastoral places with which such 
affections are perhaps most generally associated, have made 
Bernard Barton, as he desired to be, a household poet with a 
large class of readers — a class, who, as they may be supposed 
to welcome in such poetry the articulate voice of good 
feelings yearning in their own bosoms, one may hope \vill 
continue and increase in England. 

While in many of these Poems it is the spirit within 
that redeems an imperfect form — just as it lights up the 
irregular features of a face into beauty — there are many 
which will surely abide the test of severer criticism. Such 
are several of the Sonnets ; which, if they have not (and 
they do not aim at) the power and grandeur, are also free 
from the pedantic stiffness, of so many English Sonnets. 
Surely that one " To my Daughter," (p. 167,) is very beau- 
tiful in all respects. 



MEMOIR. XXXIX 



Some of the lighter pieces — " To Joanna," " To a young 
Housewife," &c., partake much of Cowper's playful grace. 
And some on the decline of life, and the religious consola- 
tions attending it, are very touching. 

Charles Lamb said the verses " To the Memory of Bloom- 
field " were " sweet with Doric delicacy." May not one say 
the same of those " On Leiston Abbey," " Cowper's Eural 
Walks," on " Some Pictures," and others of the shorter 
descriptive pieces ? Indeed, utterly incongruous as at first 
may seem the Quaker clerk and the ancient Greek Idyllist, 
some of these little poems recall to me the inscriptions in 
the Greek Anthology — not in any particular passages, but 
in their general air of simplicity, leisurely elegance, and quiet, 
unimpassioned pensiveness. 

Finally, what Southey said of one of Barton's volumes — 
" there are many rich passages and frequent felicity of ex- 
pression " — may modestly be said of these selections from ten. 
^ot only is the fundamental thought of many of them very 
beautiful — as in the poems, '' To a Friend in Distress," "The 
Deserted Xest," " Thought in a Garden," &c., — but there are 
many verses whose melody will linger in the ear, and many 
images that will abide in the memory. Such surely are 
those of men's hearts brightening up at Christmas " like a 
fire new stirred," — of the stream that leaps along over the 
pebbles " like happy hearts by holiday made light," — of the 
solitary tomb showing from afar like a lamb in the meadow. 
And in the poem called " A Dream," — a dream the poet 
really had, — hoAv beautiful is that chorus of the friends of 
her youth who surround the central vision of his departed 
wife, and who, much as the dreamer wonders they do not see 
she is a spirit, and silent as she remains to their g^ree tings, 
still with countenances of " blameless mirth," like some of 
Correggio's angel attendants, press around her without awe 
or hesitation, repeating " welcome, welcome ! " as to one sud- 
denly returned to them from some earthly absence only, and 
not from beyond the dead — ^from heaven. 

E. F. G. 



LETTERS 



TO THE EEV. C. B. TAYLER. 

4 mo, 22, 1824. 
Dear Charles, 

My head and heart are full even to overflow- 
ing : my eyes are almost dim with gazing at one object, 
yet are still unsatisfied. I keep thinking of one thing 
all day, stealing to feast my eyes on it when I can, and 
lie down to di-eam of it o' nights. In one sentence, my 
good cousins at Carlisle have sent me my dear, dear 
father's picture. It is in most excellent preservation, 
not at all injured by the journey, and I wiite to-night 
to a friend in town to arrange for its being neatly 
framed. But I must describe it. 

Its size is about four and a half by rather more than 
three and a half feet ; — how I wish our parlour were a 
little larger ! My desT pater is seated at a round table, 
his elbow resting on it, and his right hand as if partly 
supporting his head ; the little finger folded down, the 
two fore ones extended up to his temple. Before him 
is a sheet of paper, headed " Abstract of Locke ;" the 
chapter on Perception, and the first volume of Locke, 
open, is on his left hand, on his knee. His countenance 
is full of thought, yet equally full of sweetness. What 



2 LETTERS. 

an ugly fellow I am compared to him ! A little further 
on the table is a German flute, and a piece of Handel's 
music, open, leaning against Akenside's Pleasures of 
Imagination. A larger volume also lies on the table, 
lettered "Kenrick's Dictionary," and several letters, 
the date of one of which, at the bottom, is March, 1774. 
(I conclude the picture was painted then.) In the 
corner, just below the table, stands a globe. On the 
book-shelves behind him are, first, a volume — the first 
line of the title I can't make out — " on Euclid ;" then, 
I think, " Simpson's Algebra," " Fitzosborne's Letters," 
another book lettered, I think, " Verulam," " Fordyce," 
" Pope's Works," " Dictionary of Arts and Sciences," 
two or three vols. The titles of the upper row of 
books are hid by a sort of curtain. An open window 
on the other side of the table gives a peep of sun-set 
sky. His dress is a suit of so red a brown as almost 
to approach to crimson ; his hair turned back from a 
fine clear forehead, with a curl over each ear, and tied 
in a sort of club behind : the ruffles at his wrists, as 
well as a frill, to say nothing of the flute, show that he 
had not then joined the Quakers. His age when this 
picture was taken I suppose about twenty. I think I 
understand it was the year before his marriage. His 
countenance is all I could wish it — (delicately fair, 
which I had always heard, and rather small features) — 
in the bloom of youth, yet thoughtful — to me full of in- 
tellect and benignity. O how proud I am of him ! — 
how thankful I am that I have written what good- 
natured critics call poetry ! for to my poetical fame, 
humble as it is, I owe the possession of this, to me, in- 
estimable treasure. It has put me all but beside my- 
self ; I go and look at it, then stand a little further ofl", 
then nearer, then try it in a new light — then go to the 



TO THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. 6 

Street door to see if any body be in sight who can at all 
value its beauties, and enter into my feelings — if so, I 
lug them in, incontinently. My good mother-in-law, I 
mean my wife's mother, a plain, excellent Quaker lady, 
who, I dare say, never went any where to look at a pic- 
ture before, has been to see it ; she thinks she sees a 
likeness to my girl in it. I wish I could — but I quite 
encourage her in doing so : my girl will never be half 
so handsome, though far more personable than her 
father. But she cannot come up to her grandfather. I 
must stop some where, so I may as well now. I make 
no excuses, I will not so far affront thee, I conjecture 
what thy feelings would be hadst thou lost a father at 
the age I was when deprived of mine, hadst thou always 
heard him spoken of as one of the most amiable, and 
intelligent, and estimable of men, yet been unable to 
picture to thyself what his outv/ard semblance was ; — 
then thirty years and more after his death, to hear that 
a portrait of him, stated by those who knew him to be 
a likeness, was in existence, yet almost to despair of 
ever seeing it, without travelling hundreds of miles — I, 
too, who have little more locomotion than a cabbage ; 
and after all to be its possessor ! 



1825. 



One or two of my literary friends do not like 
my Vigils so well as its precursors — they say it is too 
Quakerish. Charles Lamb says it is my best, but that 
I have lugged in religion rather too much. Bowring 
vituperates it in toto — save the Ode to Time ; by no 

B 2 



4 LETTERS. 

means a great favourite with me. I am not put out of 
conceit with it yet, for all this. Its faults are numerous, 
but it has more redeeming parts than either of its pre- 
decessors. And so it ought ; else I had lived two years 
for nothing. As to its Quakerism, I meant it should 
be Quakerish. I hope to grow more so in my next — 
else, why am I a Quaker? My love to the whole 
visible, ay, and the whole invisible church of Christ, is 
not lessened by increased affection to the little niche of 
it in which I may happen to be planted. The bird 
would not mourn the less the fall of the tree which held 
its nest, because in that nest was found the first and 
primary source of its own little hopes and fears. How 
absurdly some people think and reason about sectarian- 
ism ! In its purer and better element, it is no bad thing 
— not a bit worse than patriotism, which need never 
damp the most generous and enlarged philanthropy. 
When I no longer love thee, dear Charles, because thou 
art a Churchman, I will begin to think my Quakerism 
is degenerating. 



1825. 



I MET with a comical adventure the other day, 
which partly amused, partly piqued me. We had a re- 
ligious visit paid to our little meeting here by a minis- 
ter of our Society, an entire stranger, I believe, to 
every one in the meeting. He gave us some very plain, 
honest counsel. After meeting, as is usual, several, in- 
deed most, Friends stopped to shake hands with our 
visitor, I among the rest ; and on my name being men- 



TO THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. 5 

tioned to him, rather officiously I thought, by one 
standing by, the good okl man said, ''Barton? — Bar- 
ton ? — that's a name I don't recollect." I told him it 
would be rather strange if he did, as we had never seen 
each other before. Suddenly, when, to my no small 
gratification, no one was attending to us, he looked 
rather inquiringly at me, and added, " What, art thou 
the Versifying Man ? " On my replying with a gravity, 
which I really think was heroic, that I was called such, 
he looked at me again, I thought " more in sorrow than 
in anger," and observed, " Ah ! that's a thing quite out 
of my way." It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, 
" I dare say it is," — but, afraid that I could not control 
my risible faculties much longer, I shook my worthy 
friend once more by the hand, and bidding him fare- 
well, left him. I dare say the good soul may have since 
thought of me, if at all, with much the same feelings as 
if I had been bitten by a mad dog — and I know not 
but that he may be very right. 



2 mo, 16, 1826, 
My dear Charles, 

On behalf of Ann, who, I am sorry to say, is 
not well enough to write herself, I am requested to say 
that we are quite unable to reconunend thee a cook of 
any kind : as to Quaker cooks, they are so scarce that 
we Quaker folk are compelled to call in the aid of the 
daughters of the land to dress our own viands, or cook 
them ourselves, as well as we can. But what, my dear 
friend, could put it into thy head to think of a Quaker 



6 LETTERS. 

cook, of all non-descripts ? Charles Lamb would have 
told thee better : he says he never could have relished 
even the salads Eve dressed for the angels in Eden — 
his appetite is too highly excited " to sit a guest with 
Daniel at his pulse." — Go to ! thou art a wag, Charles ; 
and this is only a sly way of hinting that we are fond 
of good living. But perhaps, after all, more of com- 
pliment than of inuendo is implied in the proposition. 
Thou thoughtest we were civil, cleanly^ quiet^ &c., all 
excellent qualities, doubtless, in women of all kinds, 
cooks not excluded. But, my dear friend, I should be 
sorry the reputation of our sect for the possession of 
these qualities should be exposed to the contingent 
vexations which culinary mortals are especially exposed 
to. " A cook whilst cooking is a sort of fury," says the 
old poet. Ay ! but not a Quaker cook, at least in the 
favourable and friendly opinion of Adine and thyself : 
— ^we are very proud of that good opinion, and I would 
not risk its forfeiture by sending one of our sisterhood 
to thee as cook. Suppose an avalanche of soot to plump 
down the chimney the first gala-day — 'twould be cook- 
ship versus Quakership, whether the poor body kept 
her sectarian serenity unruffled ; and suppose the beam 
kicked the wrong way, what would become of all our 
reputation in the temporary good opinion of Adine and 
thee ? But, all badinage apart, even in our own Society 
there are comparatively few who are in the situation of 
domestic servants, and I never remember but one in 
the peculiar office referred to. I much doubt whether 
one could be found at all likely to suit you ; and I have 
little doubt that you may suit yourselves much better 
out of our sisterhood than in it. 



TO THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. 



2 mo, 23, 1846. 
Dear Charles, 

I TOOK up by mere accident the other evening 
thy two volumes of " May you Like it/' given me by 
thee, as they respectively appeared, many years ago ; 
and I laid them down not until I had fairly read them 
through. The Tales themselves, and thy handwriting 
in the title-page of each, sent my thoughts back to long 
by-gone years, and to old places unvisited by me now 
for many a day; pleasant companions now in their 
graves, or far dispersed ; and a few social parties whom 
I can never hope again to fall in with. I wonder if 
any days of lang syne at Hadleigh ever recur to thee, 
as they have done to me within the last three days. 
The cheerful, benevolent Doctor Drake, his lady, and 
Mary; the blind aged mother of Mrs. D. — Rose, I 
think her name was. Then, too, a glimmering recol- 
lection of the somewhat pompous, but good-tempered in 
the main. Dr. Drummond, recurs to me — oui- morning 
visit to his study, or library, whichever he called it, in 
the room over the gate-way. I do not know why, but 
I always fancied Dr. Johnson's Ashbourne friend, Tay- 
lor, might have been a sort of double of our friend the 
Hadleigh Rector — only, I think the Ashbourne Doctor 
wore a reverend wig ; and I have a clear recollection of 
our friend's bald forehead. Then I have a reminiscence 
of a morning call on thy mother and sisters, and seeing 
the first tuberose I ever saw, in your parlour ; and did 
we not make a large tea-party there, filling every nook 
and cranny of the room ? and did not A — play and 
sing to us ? or is it all a dream ? But it was no dream, 
that walk of ours to Aldham — and our poring over that 



8 LETTERS. 

old stone at the foot of the obelisk, with its rude in- 
scription. Another ramble, too, over some heathy or 
furzy hill, where we looked down on " Hadlej in the 
Hole," and traced the windings of that brooklet, called 
by courtesy a river — the Brett, or Breta, I forget which 
they called it. If my memory err not, little Clarke 
(Branwhite) was with us on that occasion — he whom 
the Eclectic Review maliciously wrote of when they 
said they did not dispute his right to the title of M. A., 
the art of poetry only being excepted. But he wrote 
pleasing verse despite their cavils. — Well, my dear 
Charles, I have now given vent to some of the thoughts 
and feelings those two little tomes have called up ; if 
they dwell with thee as with me — I speak of my poor 
"shadowy recollections," as the Daddy* calls them — 
thou wilt more than forgive their revival. Dear love 
to A. and thyself. 

Thine affectionately, 

B. B. 



* A playful name for Wordsworth among some of B. B.'s 
friends. 



TO MES. SHAVE, 



Woodhridge, 3 mo, 2, 1837. 
My dear Friexd, 

I OWE thee a long letter in return for a very 
long and delightful one, on the subject of lectures for 
Mechanics' Institutes : and after a month's silence, I sit 
down to pay thee in what Elia would have called bad 
coin, alias a letteret ; but the fact is, I have been, ex- 
clusive of my ordinary desk -work, rather extraordi- 
narily engaged since the receipt of thine. 

I have, or had, two aged uncles, male aunts Lamb 
used to call 'em ; not uncles of mine exactly, but of 
Lucy's mother. Just after the receipt of thy last, I had 
an intimation that one of them, who lives at Leiston 
Abbey, had been alarmingly ill, and the next Sunday I 
posted down to see him. The day I spent with him, 
his younger brother, of seventy-five, died. As he wa« 
my old master, to whom I served a seven years' ap- 
prenticeship, I went the following Sabbath into Essex, 
well nigh forty miles, to his funeral ; that is, I went on 
the day before, and returned the day after ; and the 
next Sabbath I went again to his surviving brother, of 
seventy-nine, to tell him all about who was present at 
a ceremony which his bodily infirmities had prevented 
him from attendinof. 



10 LETTERS. 

Now, when it is taken into account that year in and 
year out I rarely go farther from home than Kesgrave 
one way, and Wickham the other, this unwonted change 
of locality has put my personal identity in some jeopar- 
dy. And never did I feel more inclined to call in 
question that same, than in paying the last mark of 
respect to my old master. The town, a little quiet 
country one, about thirteen miles sideways of Colches- 
ter, was one in which during eight years I saw little or 
no change. Thirty-one years after, I walked there as 
in a dream ; the names over all the shop doors were 
changed, the people were not the same, the houses, or 
most of them, were altered. It was only the aspect of 
the country round, and the position of the main street, 
which I seemed to recognise as the same. The old 
market-place, a piece of rude and simple architecture, 
which looked as if it might have grown there in the 
reign of Elizabeth, and stood just opposite to our shop 
door, was pulled down, and its place supplied by a pyra- 
midal obelisk, bearing three gas lamps — gas ! a thing the 
good folks there, I will answer for it, had scarce heard 
of thirty years ago. Out on such new-fangled innova- 
tions ! Had I been apprenticed in London I should 
have thought nothing of it ; but in a little obscure place 
like Halstead, a spot where all seemed changeless during 
my eight years' sojourn, I was fairly posed. Bear in 
mind that I was there from fourteen to twenty-two — 
knew, and was known by, every body, and was as familiar 
with all around me as with the features of my own face. 
Yet I stood as a stranger in a strange place, with just 
enough surviving marks of recognisance to perplex and 
bewilder me. From fourteen to twenty-two is the very 
era of castle-building, and mine were dissolved in air 
by my return to the site of their erection. No wonder 



TO 3IRS. SHAWE. 11 

that it has taken me all the time since my return to 
become myself again, and that I have felt unequal to 
any letterizing. 



9 mo, 1, 1837. 

My only remaining near Quaker relative, my 
sister Lizzy — a discreet, sedate, and deliberate spinster 
of sixty or more, with a head as white as snow, has gone 
over to your Church, having received the ordinances of 
Baptism and the Supper from my nephew, a clergyman, 
who married my sister Hack's eldest daughter. My 
sister H. herself had been previously baptized, three of 
her children had long before done the same ; my bro- 
ther and his family are all Church-folk, Lucy the same, 
and I am now almost the sole representative of my fa- 
ther's house, quite the only one of his children, left as 
an adherent to the creed he adopted from a conscien- 
tious conviction of its truth. I am left all alone, like 
Goldsmith's old widow in the Deserted Village, looking 
for water-cresses in the brook of Auburn. Lucy tells me 
I must turn too, but unfortunately, all the results of my 
reading, reasoning, reflection, observation, and feeling, 
make me more and more attached to my old faith. It 
seems only rendered dearer to me by the desertion of 
those whom I most love. Yet I love them not a whit 
the less for abandoning it ; believing, as I do, that they 
have done so on principle. Still, principle on their 
part could be no warrant for a want of it on mine : so 
I must e'en be a Quaker still. But the change of my 
dear, good, and orderly old maiden sister, in whom I 



12 LETTERS. 

thought there was no variableness nor shadow of turn- 
ing, is the last I should have ever dreamt of, and I 
mourn over and marvel at it by turns. The first feel- 
ing, however, will soon subside, for I neither feel nor 
affect any horror of the rites and ordinances of your 
Church, though I cannot regard them as essential, I 
as firmly believe that there is a baptism which doth now 
save — a supper of the Lamb, whereof all the living 
members of the Church must and do partake — as any 
Churchman can do : but I still retain my conviction 
that water has nothing to do with the first, nor out- 
ward bread and vdne with the last, in the simple, spi- 
ritual, and sublime dispensation of the gospel. Such, 
my dear friend, is my creed touching ordinances — 
while it is such, I must still remain. 

Thy affectionate, though Quakerish friend, 

B. B. 



9 mo, 26, 1837. 

Haye I written to thee since I received the 
intelligence of my dear and good spinster sister having 
thought it her duty, at near sixty, to become a proselyte 
to your Church, and with her, three other relations of 
ours at Chichester ? about, I should think, a fourth or 
fifth of their Lilliputian congregation there. I can only 
marvel and mourn at such changes ; my own Quaker- 
ism clings to me all the closer. An instance, here and 
there, of a change of religious opinion, even in riper 
years, I could suppose to be the result of calm, sober in- 
quiry into doctrines taken on trust from mere education, 
and into which little, if any, inquiry has been seriously 



To MRS. SHAWE. 13 

made ; though even this conclusion implies no compli- 
ment to reflecting persons, who certainly ought, be their 
faith what it may, to know what it is, and why they hold 
it. But these secessions by the lump, this flocking off 
by families, looks to me more like an epidemic disease, 
than the result of a patient inquiry and a deliberate 
con\-iction. I can always hear with pleasure of the 
conversion of a Jew, a pagan, or an infidel to a belief 
in Christianity ; it is a step in advance in the only true 
and saving knowledge, a soul brought out of the dark- 
ness of ignorance into the glorious light of the gospel. 
But a change from one form or profession of Christian 
faith to another, believing as I do that each and all em- 
brace all knowledge necessary to salvation, is not with 
me a matter of much cause of congratulation. With all 
my own penchant for my own "ism," I am not one of 
those who would compass sea and land to gain prose- 
lytes to it ; for principles of belief, modes of faith, are 
not with me things to be put on and off like a change 
of apparel. They go far to make up the identity of 
those who hold them, and I get puzzled, bewildered, 
and I ]mow not what, among old friends with new faces. 
My Lucy was, comparatively, a chit when she aposta- 
tized (I don't use the word in its malignant sense) ; it 
was conceivable that her thoughts had not been before 
seriously turned to these topics, not marvellous that 
then first searching into them she should come to a 
conclusion differing from my own. But a new light 
dawning on well-taught, well-trained, serious, and re- 
flective minds, at more than fifty, to whom the oracles 
of Holy Writ have always been open, and whom I 
know to have been daily students therein, is a sort of 
anomaly I cannot understand. 



14 LETTERS. 

Note.— Mr. Barton had previously written to Mrs. Sutton, his 
Quaker correspondent : — 

12 mo, 16, 1834. 

[I SOMETIMES think that if Lucy, as well as a 
few others who have left us, I believe from sincere but 
mistaken apprehension of duty, could have been con- 
tent, when they first doubted, to have looked more in- 
ward and less outward ; they might have found the 
object of their search Avithout any separation from their 
early friends. When the woman in the parable had 
lost the piece of silver, she did not go out to seek for it, 
but lighted a candle and swept her own house, and 
searched diligently till she found it ; and I believe her 
case is applicable to many of the seekers after good even 
to the present day. But I readily allow that different 
minds, different dispositions, and diversified views, may 
require different training — it was not intended we should 
all see eye to eye ; we must bear and forbear ; for truly 
we shall all need it, at no distant day, when we shall be 
called upon to give an account of the time and talents 
intrusted to us individually, and of their use or abuse.] 



12 mo, 5, 1837. 

In one respect the work itself,* and my office 
of Preface writer, have afforded me some soothing and 
gratifying reflections. Differing as Lucy and I do on 
certain points, it is to me a comforting thought, that we 

* Miss Barton's Bible History; to which Mr. Barton contri- 
buted a Preface. 



TO MRS. SHAWE. 15 

can forget and forego all such differences in a cordial, 
though humble and feeble, effort to uphold the life and 
character of our common Lord and Master as a pattern 
for the imitation of his followers of whatever sect or 
name ; and can freely join in the effort to turn the atten- 
tion of the young to its beauty and excellence. It would 
say little, indeed, for Lucy's Churchanity or my Quaker- 
ism, could we have thought,^ felt, or done otherwise. 

And now, after all this egotism, for, Lucy being a sort 
of second self, all I write about her comes under that 
head, I must inquire after N .'s gout. I hope long ere 
this it has ceased, at any rate, to rage; for I have very 
awful ideas of that malady in its potential mood trea- 
sured amid the earlier memories of my childhood. My 
grandfather and grandmother had a country-house at 
Tottenham, where some of my happiest hours were 
spent. But every earthly elysium has its set-off; and 
this was not exempt. A good citizen of the name of 
Townsend, a particular friend of the venerable pair, 
used to come do'^Ti there and bring his gout with him ; 
and my poor grandma's fright lest I should go near his 
too susceptible foot used to keep her and me in a worry. 
— Well nigh half a century has elapsed since those days, 
but her reiterated exclamation, " Child ! do take care 
and not run against friend Townsend's foot," is yet dis- 
tinctly in my mind's ear. T. was a patient, quiet old 
sufferer too, and if I did touch the forbidden stool in 
an unlucky moment, he was the first to notify that no 
harm was done. — I hope N. bears his honours as meekly, 
and that, with as kindly a heart as poor old Jemm.y 
Townsend's, his unwelcome companion may be of a 
kindlier nature. I much doubt if the worthy old citi- 
zen ever stood or walked much — at least, all my recol- 
lections of him go on wheels. 



16 LETTERS. 

11 mo, 24, 1838. 
My deah Friend, 

I SEND thee herewith a little book* which to 
many would seem the very essence of insipidity — but if 
I mistake not, thou wilt appreciate more indulgently the 
genuine simplicity of its character. * * * 

* * * To me it is a tome of no common interest, 
from the picture it gives of gentle, unobtrusive goodness 
— and the light it incidentally throws on what I regard 
as the true operative tendency of the Quaker creed, 
when lived up to and simply followed. For though it 
be perfectly true that gentleness, meekness, patience, 
faith, and love are of no sect, yet the manner in which 
these are taught, and the mode in which they are ex- 
hibited, may have some distinguishing features. In 
the case of this young woman, for instance, her growth 
in Christian excellence is not to be traced to her edifi- 
cation under the teaching of a Christian ministry. 
Sudbury, where she was born and brought up, is a very 
small meeting, and I cannot now call to mind its ever 
having had, in my memory, even one of our seldom- 
speaking preachers resident there, so that I think it 
very probable, that through childhood and girlhood, 
except while at school, this girl, week after week, and 
month after month, chiefly attended silent meetings only. 
Her Christian knowledge and experience were nurtured 
by no ordinances; for the outward observances of these 
she never knew, or practised. 

Think not for one moment I am condemning either a 
stated ministry, the use of a form of a prayer, or the ob- 
servance of ordinances among others — very far from it. 

* Memoirs of Maria Jesup. 



TO MRS. SIIAWE. 17 

I am only adducing a simple proof that in the absence 
of all these, generally deemed essential, the Great Head 
of the church will himself be the teacher of those who, 
conscientiously rejecting such helps, under a firm be- 
lief of the simple spirituality of His religion, look to 
Him, and his word, both written and inwardly revealed, 
as their rule and law. Who shall say that in doing 
this they have followed cunningly devised fables, or 
the ignis fatuus of mere fanaticism ? The means so 
blessed to her seem to have been, the practice of daily 
retirement, the study of the Scriptures, and diligent 
attention to what she apprehended to be the teacliing 
of the Holy Spirit. What is there that ought to be 
regarded as sectarian in each or all of these ? To my 
judgment, nothing ; for they seem to me part and parcel 
of our common Christianity, and to embrace and em- 
body its very essence. 

In the phraseology of her memoranda, Quakerism is 
more apparent, but not to me offensively so. I like it 
all the better, perhaps, from its being, in a manner, my 
mother tongue. To me it has a charm from its sim- 
plicity, which is in keeping with the unobtrusive re- 
tired worth of its writer. Nor do I believe such cha- 
racters by any means rare among the young women of 
the Society. How little there is of doctrinal discussion 
in these memoranda ! no mooting of knotty points or 
abstruse dogmas : all is viewed in its practical influ- 
ence on the heart and its affections, and their con- 
formity to the Divine will ; and such is, and ought to 
be, and ever will be, the aim, scope, and tendency of all 
true religion. 

Thy affectionate friend, 

B. B. 



18 LETTERS. 

1838. 

Dr. Johnson says, I think, in a paper of his 
'' Idler," written on the death of his mother, that philo- 
sophy may infuse stubbornness, but religion alone can 
give true patience. And he never said anything more 
true. There is a spurious sort of fortitude which the 
pride of our poor frail nature, aided by the cut and dry 
precepts of what is called philosophy, can supply in the 
hour of trial, which may yield a temporary support ; 
but, even while it lasts, the spirit of stoical endurance 
has none of the healing virtue of Christian submission : 
it leaves the heart and all its affections hard and dry, 
unsoftened by those afflictions which were graciously 
sent to melt and mould them to nobler influences and 
enlarged capacities of good ; while the meek and re- 
signed spirit which God's holy word would inculcate, 
and which his blessed Spirit would give to the Chris- 
tian mourner, leads us to look beyond present suffering 
to the end it was designed to accomplish, and to the 
grateful confession that He who does not afflict us 
willingly, has done all well and wisely, and has only 
chastened us to bring us nearer to himself. 



1839. 



When any sorrow tends to wrap us up in our- 
selves, and make us think only of our own feelings and 
privations, we may be very sure it is not answering the 
end for which it was mercifully sent. 



TO MRS. SHAWE. 19 



1S39. 



The longer I live the more expedient I find 
it to endeavour more and more to extend mj sympathies 
and affections. The natural tendency of advancing 
years is to narrow and contract these feelings. I do 
not mean that I msh to form a new and sworn friend- 
ship every day — to increase my circle of intimates ; 
these are very different affairs. But I find it conduces 
to my mental health and happiness to find out all I can 
which is amiable and loveable in all I come in contact 
^yitK and to make the most of it. It may fall very short 
of what I was once wont to di^eam of ; it may not sup- 
ply the place of what I have known, felt, and tasted ; 
but it is better than nothing — it serves to keep the feel- 
ings and affections in exercise — it keeps the heart alive 
in its humanity ; and, till we shall be all spiritual, this 
is alike our duty and our interest. 



5 mo, 2, 1S40. 

Many thanks to thee and Newton for attend- 
ing at my launch.* I never affect to put on a voluntary 
humility, or affect indifference where I feel aught of 
gratification or interest ; and I did both on the occasion 
to which I refer. At the time, I was sailing about 
Portsmouth harbour, looking at great castles of ships, 
to which the B. B. was but like a child's toy, made out 

* Launch of the " Bernard Barton " schooner. 
c2 



20 LETTERS. 

of half a walnut-shell. Some of these leviathans were 
on the stocks, having been hauled up to repair ; and I 
was asking myself if my vanity would not have been 
more tickled to have had one of these first-rates bear my 
name, and be consigned to its destined element amid the 
shouts of a far more numerous and brilliant assemblage 
than I could then suppose got together at Woodbridge. 
Of a truth, could the choice have been given me, I 
should have given my vote, most cordially, for the 
schooner B. B. at Woodbridge. I have so decided a 
preference for humbler fame of home growth, awarded 
by folks that I have lived among for thirty-five years, 
and am linked to by numberless and nameless ties of 
neighbourly, social, and friendly sympathy. With 
these feelings thou wilt readily feel and understand that 
the B. B. is a bit of a pet with me, and I really believe 
I have as much interest in her well-doing as if I held a 
share in her. I have been down several times to see 
her as she lies along-side the quay; her rigging and 
mast, with some of her sails, are now up, and this week 
she is to sail, I think to Hartlepool, a port, I believe, 
on the Durban coast, some where near Sunderland, 
Our ancestors, who used to be devout in their phrase- 
ology, even about business, had in their old printed 
bills of lading a phrase, now, I believe, gone out of 
fashion, and, after stating the cargo, and the time al- 
lowed for the voyage and delivery, the old finale ran 
thus — " and so God speed the good ship, and send her 
safe to her desired port ! " or some words to that effect. 
The thing I dare say was a mere form, and to nine- 
tenths using and signing it, had no meaning. I thought, 
however, this evening, as I turned away from the quay, 
I could echo the old phrase very cordially. 



TO MRS. SHAAYE. 21 



TO ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT. 

[Some of mj townsmen, three or four years 
ago, took it into their heads to name a schooner, built 
at this port, after their Woodbridge poet. The parties 
were not literary people, or great readers or lovers of 
verse ; I am not sure that they ever read a page of 
mine. But I suppose they thought a poet creditable, 
some how or other, to a port ; and so they did me that 
honour, for which I am vastly their debtor. The stanza, 

" Thou l)ear'st r.o proud or lofty name 
Whicli all who read must know," 

is no flight of voluntary humility on my part, but a 
simple record of a positive fact ; for the captain has 
told me he has been asked over and over again, up the 
Mersey, the Humber, the Severn, and I know not where 
else, what person or place his ship is named after ? and 
I fancy the poor fellow has been at some pains to con- 
vince inquirers that among my own folk I really pass 
for somebody. At any rate, his vessel was once put 
down in the shipping list, among the arrivals at some 
far-off port, as "The Barney Burton,''^ Oh, TTilly 
Shakspeare ! well might est thou ask " What's in a 
name?"] 



1 mo, 8, 1843. 
My dear Friend, 

Were I to follow out my own inclination in 
saying all that thy questions might suggest to me as 



22 LETTERS. 

wortliy to be said on the topics referred to, it would 
lead me into a wide field of discussion ; but I will not 
trust myself to do this, lest I should subject myself to 
be classed with those, of old who were said to " darken 
counsel by words without knowledge." I am perfectly 
aware that St. Paul uses the words quoted by thee, " I 
suffer not a woman to teach ; " they are to be found in 
the Epistle to Timothy, and the context, if my memory 
deceives me not, runs thus, — "nor to usurp authority 
over the manr Where any such disposition could be 
manifested, I readily grant that woman could be very 
ill qualified to teach either her own sex or ours, having 
need to be taught herself the very first rudiments of a 
gospel ministry. I am quite aware, too, the same 
apostle in his Epistle to the Corinthians speaks after 
this fashion, "Let your women keep silence in the 
churches, for it is not permitted unto them to speak." 
And here again I think the context tends to throw some 
light on the interdiction, " If they will learn anything^ 
let them ask their husbands at home : " words which, to 
my understanding, pretty plainly intimate the sort of 
speaking which the apostle intended absolutely to for- 
bid. Those women, or men either, who would speak 
in the churches, merely to ask questions whereby they 
might learn somewhat, could hardly be qualified for the 
high and holy office of the ministry. Now these two 
are, I think, the only passages interdictory of women's 
preaching — that their real spirit is not opposed to the 
lawfulness (under the gospel dispensation) of a female 
ministry, I am compelled to believe for the following 
reasons : — 

First, the entire spirituality of the gospel dispensa- 
tion, its abolition of all the old Mosaic law of priest- 
hood, which vested the office of the ministry in the sons 



TO MRS. SHAWE. 23 

of Levi, exclusivelj. This marked distinction is ex- 
plicitly made by Peter in his address to the people on 
the day of Pentecost, when he says, " This is that which 
was spoken by the prophet Joel ; — ' I will pour out of my 
Spirit upon all flesh : and your sons and your daughters 
shall prophesy : — and on my servants and on my hand- 
maidens I will pour out in those days of my Spirit ; and 
they shall prophesy r'' In fact, I believe it to be one of 
the glorious features of that new priesthood which our 
Lord himself set up in his church, that it is limited to 
no sex, or rank, or station. 

In the second place, the passages referred to in St. 
Paul's Epistles as interdictory of women's preaching do 
not appear to me conclusive, because they are in direct 
contradiction to other passages in his own writings. If 
he meant, in toto, to forbid the ministry of women at 
all, why give directions what their attire or costume 
should be when praying or prophesying, and that they 
should do neither with their heads uncovered ? The 
whole tenor of the opening of the 11th chapter of 1st 
Corinthians, shows that the apostle there refers to 
what openly passed in the public assemblies of the 
early church. When I find the same apostle sending 
such a message as this, " Salute those women who 
laboured with me in the gospel " — (I find I have quoted 
Avi^ong, trusting to memory ; his words are) — " Help 
those women which laboured mth me in the gospel," I 
think it no forced construction that they were fellow 
ministers. The same I should infer of Priscilla, whom 
he styles one of his helpers in Christ. But it would be 
endless to quote all the passages which tend to show, 
that in the earlier age of the church, and in the primi- 
tive purity of its apostolic government, women did 
exercise their gift in the ministry. 



24 LETTERS. 

With regard to the practical working of this liberty 
of prophesying, in our own Society, I can only say that 
I believe it has worked well ; and that some of the 
most powerful, effective, and persuasive ministers in 
the Society have been women, — and still are. I can- 
not understand why there should be aught of soul in 
sex which should qualify the one exclusively, and dis- 
qualify the other from becoming fit recipients of those 
influences of the Spirit by the aid of which alone man 
or woman can speak to edification. In some respects, 
especially as regards our own Society, I should say that 
women, among us, taking into account their general 
training, habits, and the life they lead, have some pecu- 
liar advantages, tending to fit and qualify them for the 
service of the ministry ; but on these it is superfluous 
to dwell. 

I do not pretend to assert that the arguments I have 
adduced for the lawfulness of female preaching, under 
the gospel dispensation, are such as will satisfy a 
church-woman of the propriety of the custom. We 
are so much the creatures of habit, of education, of tra- 
dition, that from the same admitted premises, we are 
very apt to come to opposite conclusions ; but I hope I 
have said somewhat which may warrant thy charitable 
and tolerant conviction that we have not come to the 
decision adopted without much thought and reflection 
on the subject ; and that we, at least, think we have 
Scripture on our side ; judging, not by one or two in- 
sulated passages, divested of their context, but by the 
spirit and scope of the New Testament law, and a care- 
ful and prayerful consideration of the facts recorded 
in it. 

I have made a much longer commentary than I in- 
tended on the text which I was requested to explain, 



TO MRS. 8IIAWE. 25 

90 I cannot now answer thy other (jucrirs. Forgive 
my prolixity, and believe nie, liowever we may differ, 
thy assured and 

Affectionate friend, 



1 mo, 12, IS 13. 
My dear Friend, 

Though thy silence by no means leads me to 
infer that my last long letter was a satisfactory one, I 
feel disposed to proceed to say a word or two on thy 
other qneries while they are fresh in my memory. 
Happily, on them I have only simple facts to state, and 
the general practice to report. 

Persons of either sex who are impressed with the be- 
lief that they are called upon by the impulse of religious 
duty to speak in our assemblies, are not in the practice 
of making any profession to this effect. If, for instance, 
I can for a moment suppose myself to be thus called 
upon, I should simply stand up in my usual place in our 
meeting, and express the few words which I conceived 
it my duty to utter. It might probably be a simple 
text of Scripture, without note or comment of any kind 
superadded: of such an appearance no notice would 
probably be taken at first, either as encouragement or 
the contrary ; for, while Friends cannot consistently 
with their principles forbid such communication, if 
made in a reverent and decorous manner, they are 
careful not hastily to foster or lay hands on any who 
make such an appearance. If it be from time to time 



26 LETTERS. 

again repeated, and a few words either of exhortation 
or encouragement added to the passage so quoted, those 
in the meeting who fill the station of approved minis- 
ters or elders, have a watchful eye on the party : not 
only tvhat he or she may say, and the spirit in which it 
seems to be uttered, are attentively observed ; but the 
general life and character of the party, and its con- 
sistency with the principles of the Society, are weighed 
and observed. If all these tend to confirm the judg- 
ment that such a person is really acting under the in- 
fluence of the Spirit, he or she is permitted to exercise 
the gift for a longer or shorter time of probation, as 
such an exercise of it may afford the more judicious and 
solid part of the meeting an opportunity of coming to 
a decision. If after such probationary exercise the 
speaker, by increasing power and authority, give satis- 
factory proof that his ministry is of the true stamp ; the 
meeting of ministers and elders, a select body who have 
meetings of their own, distinct from the more public 
ones, recommend to the monthly meeting at large, that 
such a person be considered as a minister in unity with 
and approved by the body at large. But I have known 
such a time of ordeal last for a year or two, before any 
steps have been taken publicly to recognise him or her 
as a minister. In fact, I have known cases where such 
a recognition has never been made, but the speaker has 
held the rather anomalous station of an allowed or 
tolerated, but not an approved minister. In such cases, 
however, the appearances of the speaker have ge- 
nerally been neither long nor frequent, and are rather 
submitted to by the body from a feeling of kind forbear- 
ance toward the parties, who may be supposed to re- 
lieve their own minds by such utterance, although they 
niay not edify the body. Still, if they say nothing un- 



TO MRS. SHAWE. 27 

sound or unscriptural, and are not often in tlie practice 
of speaking, it seems safest and wisest to let them alone. 
If they become very troublesome, and give evident proof 
that their supposed gift is spurious, they are first pri- 
vately dissuaded from making any such appearance in 
the ministry: — if they still continue the practice, an 
elder minister, or overseer of the meeting, would pub- 
licly request them to sit down ; but I have rarely known 
the thing carried so far. Where a gift in the ministry 
has been considered genuine, and acceptably exercised, 
the party has mostly continued in that station during 
life. 

I do not see aught in our creed which should render 
such a continuance stranger among us than others. I 
know of nothing in the practice or theory of Quakerism 
which should give rise to the report that we are " called 
upon to confess our faults one to another " — most cer- 
tainly if aught at all bordering on the " auricular con- 
fession " of the Romish Church be implied, I have 
never heard of anything of the sort. 

If my answers to thy questions are not intelligible, I 
shall be perfectly willing to make them so, or to try to 
give thee any further explanation. 

Thy assured friend, 

B. B. 



1843. 



The longer I live the more I love and prize 
Quaker principles. But I am weU content to love them 
without compassing sea and land to make proselytes to 



28 ' LETTERS. 

tiiem, and would rather be thought in error for holding 
them, even by those whom I most esteem, than "risk 
any infringement of that perfect law of love which is 
the essence and substance of religion itself, by disputing 
about them. Most happily, my dear friend, none of 
these are primary, vital, and essential truths — on them 
we cordially agree. All who look at the propitiating 
atonement of Christ, and that alone, for salvation ; all 
who humbly seek for, and strive to live in obedience to, 
the teachings of the Holy Spirit, as the means of their 
regeneration and sanctification ; all such, be their name 
or sect what it may, I look upon as living members of 
the only true Catholic Church. They hold allegiance 
to one Head, and derive their life from one Root. 



TO W. B. DONNE, ESQ. 



4 mo, 5, 1840. 

Pray make my very kindest respects to Mrs. 
Donne, and my most reverential ones to Mrs. Bodham. 
I believe I am more proud of having sat on the sofa with 
her, than of having, or being about to have, a ship named 
after me. The Bernard Barton may go to the bottom, 
(though I hope better things for her, — ^how odd it seems 
to write of myself in the feminine gender !) and her fate 
may bring disgrace on my name, as having tended to 
bring about such a catastrophe ; but nothing in the un- 
rolled scroll of the future, so long as that future is passed 
by me in this state of being, can cheat me out of the 
remembrance of that bright hour or two at Mattishall, 
and in its environs. There are few in my life that I 
have lived over again with more delight. 

I am finishing my letter, begun three days ago, in my 
own little study, six feet square, at the witching hour of 
night, having just closed two ponderous ledgers brought 
out of the bank, to do lots of figure-work, after working 
there from nine to six. I only wish I had thee in the 
opposite chair, to take a pinch out of the Royal George^* 

* A snuff-box made out of tlie recovered wood of the Royal 
George. 



30 LETTERS. 

or another, as interesting a relic, standing by rne on the 
table — a plain wooden box, the original cost of which 
might be 2s. 6d. or 2>s. ; but to me it has a worth pass- 
ing show, having been the working-box and table-com- 
panion of Crabbe the poet. It was given me by his son 
and biographer, and I prize it far beyond a handsome 
silver one, Crabbe's dress box, which I think his son 
told me he gave to Murray. 



6 7no, 23, 1842. 

Well, but now about thy Roman History, for 
certain numbers of which I am thy debtor. When the 
numbers first came I said, "Go to — I will be wise, and 
study history. I never yet read a history in my life, 
save after the hop-skip-and-jump fashion, but now I 
will become historic." Alas I alas ! I did most faith- 
fully, honestly, and truly read, mark, learn, and strove 
inwardly to digest ; but I got on slowly. I thought of 
the first line of Wordsworth's sonnet to my neighbour 
the great abolitionist — 

" Clarkson, it was an obstinate hill to climb ! *' 

and " the more I read the more my wonder grew " at 
the persevering industry of thyself in digging, sifting, 
sorting, and arranging such an accumulation of histori- 
cal details. At times I honestly own I flagged, but 
when I called to mind thy labour of love in having 
written it all, and corrected the proofs ; to say nothing 
of first collecting the materials, and that these numbers 



TO W. B. DONNE, ESQ. 31 

were but a specimen ; I marvelled more and more. 
Still, the longer I read, the more I became convinced I 
was hopelessly unhistorical — that in my phrenology the 
organ of history was very imperfectly developed. Yet 
thy history is a good history notwithstanding, true, and 
faithful, and learned; but such is the wayward per- 
versity of a poet, methinks I should like it better had 
it few^er facts and more fiction interwoven. 

If I have not in sober earnest given cause of offence 
to thee, by my inability to ride thy hobby, pray write 
and tell me how it fares with you all. It ought to be 
no ground of quarrel wiih me in thy eyes, if I feel more 
interested about Catherine than Cornelia, or about thy 
two eldest boys than about Eomulus and Remus. Mrs. 
Donne is, I hope, too very a woman not to like me the 
better for it ; and, as her husband, thou art bound to 
forofive me. I direct this to the Penates at Mattishall. 



Woodhridge^ 6 mo, 25, 1847. 

My dear Donne, 

I SEND thee the annexed little tribute,* not to 
challenge any laud for its poetical merits, nor because 
the character it commemorates had much of what scho- 
lars and critics would call poetical in his composition, 
but simply because his had the elements^ the material of 
such in my eye. He was a hearty old yeoman of about 
eighty-six — had occupied the farm in which he lived 
and died about fifty-five years. Social, hospitable, 

* A Memorial to T. H. 



32 LETTERS. 

friendly; a liberal master to his labourers, a kind 
neighbour, and a right merry companion "within the 
limits of becoming mirth." In politics, a staunch Whig ; 
in his theological creed, as sturdy a Dissenter ; yet with 
no more party spirit in him than a child. He and I 
belonged to the same book club for about forty years. 
He entered it about fifteen years before I came into 
these parts, and was really a pillar in our literary tem- 
ple. Not that he greatly cared about books, or was 
deeply read in them, but he loved to meet his neigh- 
bours, and get them round him, on any occasion, or no 
occasion at all. As a fine specimen of the true English 
yeoman, I have met few to equal, hardly any to sur- 
pass him, and he looked the character as well as he acted 
it, till within a very few years, when the strong man 
was bowed by bodily infirmity. About twenty-six years 
ago, in his dress costume of a blue coat and yellow buck- 
skins, a finer sample of John Bullism you would rarely 
see. It was the whole study of his long life to make 
the few who revolved round him in his little orbit, 
as happy as he always seemed to be himself ; yet I was 
gravely queried with, when I happened to say that his 
children had asked me to write a few lines to his me- 
mory, whether I could do this in keeping with the ge- 
neral tone of my poetry. The speaker doubted if he 
was a decidedly pious character. He had at times, in 
his altitudes, been known to vociferate at the top of his 
voice, a song of which the chorus was certainly not 
teetotalish — 

" Sing old Rose and burn the bellows, 
Drink and drive dull care away." 

' I would not deny the vocal impeachment, for I had heard 
him sing the song myself, though not for the last dozen 



TO W. B. DONXE5 ESQ. 33 

years. As for his being or not being a decidedly j)ioiis 
character, that depended partly on wh^) might be called 
on to decide the question. He was not a man of much 
profession, but he was a most diligent attender of his 
place of worship, a frequent and I believe a serious 
reader of his Bible, and kept an orderly and well-regu- 
lated house. In his blither moods I certainly have 
heard him sing that questionable ditty before referred 
to, but, as it appeared to me, not under vinous excite- 
ment so much as from an unforced hilarity which ha- 
bitually found vent in that explosion ; and I think he 
never in my presence volunteered that song. It was 
pretty sure to be asked for once in a while, by some who 
liked to hear themselves join in the chorus. I believe 
it was his only one, with the exception of Watts's hjTiins, 
which he almost knew by heart, and sang on Sunday, 
at meeting, with equal fervour and unction. Take the 
good old man for all in all, I look not to see his like 
again, for the breed is going out, I fear. His fine spirit 
of humanity was better, methinks, than much of that 
which apes the tone and assumes the form of divinity. 
So now I think I have told thee enough to weary thee, 
in prose, as well as verse, of my old neighbour and 
fi^iend the Suffolk yeoman. 

Thine trulv, 

B. B. 



6 mo, 12, 1847. 
My dear Donne, 

I HAVE never heard of, or from thee, since I 
wrote thee my thanks for cutting up some verses I sent 

D 



34 LETTERS. 



thee as a sort of requiem for a near and dear friend of 
mine ; and I really think the readiness with which I 
submitted to thy critical dissection on that occasion 
ought to have elicited thy special commendation ; con- 
sidering that from the time of the appeal made by those 
two mothers to Solomon, few, if any, parents have been 
found willing to submit their offspring to such an opera- 
tion. But I can forgive thy sins of commission sooner 
than thy sins of omission. 



10 mo, 30, 1848. 

I BELIEVE, and know by sad and dire experi- 
ence, that shopkeepers and artisans, clerks, jonrnejinen, 
are in many cases sorely overworked; and have not 
proper and needful leisure allowed them for rest or re- 
creation. If a scrap of my doggerel could help my 
brother galley-slaves and myself, why not send it ? But 
I lack faith. Mere earlier closing will not do the job. 
We used to keep open till five, daily ; but for these two 
years and more we have shut up at four, save on market 
days. Yet we stop later of evenings, from the increased 
pressure of business, since we have closed at four, than 
we used to do when y/e kept open till five. So we have 
taken little by that movement. 



TO MES. SUTTON. 



Gf these letters, written to a Quaker lady, (whom Mr. Barton never 
saw,* but corresponded with for more than twenty years,) the 
first division alludes mainly to some little charges of Quaker 
non-conformity ; charges kindly and half playfully made, and so 
answered. 

The last division refers to certain controversies among the Friends, 
and secessions from that body, several years ago. 

7 mo, 26, 1839. 

My dear good old mother's house is to be sold 
or offered hy auction to-morrow. * * * The house, 

* To this lady he addressed the sonnet : — 

Unknown to sight — for more than twenty years 
Have we, by written interchange of thought, 
And feeling, been into communion brought 
Which friend to friend insensibly endears ! 
In various joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. 
Befalling each ; and serious subjects, fraught 
. With wider interest, we at times have sought 
To gladden this — yet look to brighter spheres ! 
We never yet have met ; and never may. 
Perchance, while pilgrims upon earth we fare ; 
Yet, as we seek each other's load to bear, 
Or lighten, and that law of love obey, 
May we not hope in heaven's eternal day 
To meet, and happier intercourse to share ? 
D 2 



36 



LETTERS. 



though very large and roomy, is near two hundred years 
old and copyhold, so not very saleable, but sold on some 
terms it must and will be: so I turned into its old- 
fashioned garden the other day a young artist friend of 
mine, and sat him down on a stool in the middle of the 
long gravel walk leading from the parlour door to the 
bottom of the garden, which ends with a most beautiful 
and picturesque group of trees. These he has made a 
delightful water-colour sketch of — an upright, about 
eleven inches high and eight wide. In the afternoon 
he turned his seat round, and sketched the back or gar- 
den front of the house, as it looks from the garden, 
above, under, and through the trees. This drawing he 
has made as a companion to the Ive- Grill sketch he did 
me a short time ago, and the same size, ten inches by 
eight, so I have hung the trio over my study fire ; and 
just under the tall upright one, I have hung the portrait 
of the old dear herself, so they hang after this fashion ; — 



and a very pretty quartetto they make, the two garden 
scenes are such vivid transcripts of the spot depicted, and, 
though slight and free sketches only, retain so perfectly 
the spirit and character of the places that I could sit and 
look at them till I half fancy myself in the old familiar 



TO ]^mS. SUTTON. 37 

haunt ; and the blessed old dear herself looks so per- 
fectly at home, in the middle of her old and favourite 
garden, that it is quite a treat to look at her. Ive-Gill, 
I promise thee, is in goodly company, and becomes it 
well. Mother's house and garden were so old-fashioned, 
and the latter so wildly overgrown with trees, that they 
assort well together. Over the top of the house, as 
high as its towering chimney, is the tufted top of a tall 
sycamore, growing in the court-yard next the street : 
this, mother stuck in a twig, to tie a flower to, or point 
out where some seeds were sown, when she came home 
a bride near sixty-six or sixty-seven years ago. It 
took root, and is now a lofty tree, but one very likely 
to be cut down by some new owner, so I wished to 
preserve its memorial. But it is now breakfast time, 
and I have been scribbling this hour. 

[Mr. Barton himself bought this house and grounds 
with some of the money presented to him by the 
Friends in 1824.] 



10 mo, 11, 1843. 

AxD now for thy dressing about my pictures? 
which I own at first took me a little by surprise ; for 
as I am in a great measure thy debtor for the largest 
picture I have, as well as for one of my favourites 
among the smaller ones — I refer of course to my father's 
portrait and the Ive-Gill sketch — I took it for granted 
thou wast aware I had such things about me. My 



38 LETTERS. 

printed and published poems, too, contain such frequent 
passing allusions to works of art, that I took it for 
granted I could scarcely have a reader who was ig- 
norant how much and how often I have been indebted 
to their silent prompting for many a descriptive and 
illustrative image in my poetry. When I first read 
thy friendly and good-natured lecture, I laughed and 
said to Lucy, — " What a lucky thing it is we did not 
act on our first impulse about Lily,* and get her down 
here ; the poor dear child would have been perfectly 
horror-struck to see how our walls are covered. But 
I will tell Mary the whole length and breadth of my 
enormities, and describe each and all of my pictures at 
full length to her." A little reflection, however, led 
me to doubt if I were justified in doing this. Thy ob- 
jections to hanging up such things may be as much a 
matter of conscience with thee as the use of them is with 
me the result of considerable thought, which gave me, 
to my own conscience, to regard such use as an allow- 
able liberty. If I looked on such works of art as mere 
ornaments hung up to gratify the vanity of the pos- 
sessor, I should cordially join in thy objection to them ; 
but I regard them in a very difierent light. My limited 
leisure and my failing bodily strength do not allow of 
my being the pedestrian I once was. I often do not 
walk out of the streets for weeks together ; but my love 
of nature, of earth, and sky, and water ; of trees, fields, 
and lanes ; and my still deeper love of the human face 
divine, is as intense as ever. As a poet, the use of 
these is as needful to me as my food. I can seldom get 
out to see the actual and the real ; but a vivid tran- 
script of these, combined with some little effort of 

* His correspondent's daughter. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 39 

memoiy and fancy, makes my little study full of life, 
peoples its silent walls with nature's cherished charms, 
and lights up human faces round me — dumb, yet elo- 
quent in their human semblance. 



1 7)10, 16, 1S4G. 

I AM about to try thy faith, love, and charity 
to an hair's breath, by sending thee a little print of the 
interior of my study with its pictures on the walls, and 
— its crucifix on the mantel-piece. What would our 
friend Smeal * say to such a delineation of the interior 
of the crib in which I spend what little of leisure I can 
get from desk-work ? I dare say it would confirm his 
worst suspicions of me. Well, there it is, and there is 
a figure in it meant to indicate me ; but about as much 
like Robinson Crusoe, as it is like me. * « * 

* * * But the crucifix — well, my dear friend, 
the crucifix — * * * It was brought from Germany, 
I think, by a friend of mine, and placed where it now 
stands, by his wife, (a true Protestant,) in my absence, 
the day before they left Woodbridge, as a parting me- 
morial; and I have simply allowed it to stand there 
ever since, now, I think, three years ! It has called 
forth, frequently, a kind thought of the giver ; now and 
then I hope not an unkind one of our erring fellow 
Christians who mistake the use of such emblems ; and 
if it have occasionally reminded me of the one great 



* Editor of the '' British Friend," who reprobated Mr. Barton 
for using the word '* November " in poetry, &c. 



40 LETTERS. 

propitiatory sacrifice for sin and transgression — that I 
hope is a thought to be reverently cherished, even if 
suggested by what some may superstitiously regard. 
Such, my dear friend, is the history of my little crucifix. 
Fare thee well, and try to think of it and me with 
charity. 



[ Referring to an order he had sent to Carlisle to repair his grand- 
father's tomb, as related in another letter.] 



8 mo, 15, 1846. 



Perhaps our good friend demurs as to the 
propriety of a Quaker poet having aught to do with 
church grave-stones. On this point, however, should 
such be his idea, he is mistaken. I could wish grave- 
stones were allowed in our own burial-grounds, a dis- 
cretionary power being vested in proper quarters as to 
what is allowed to be put on them. Confine it, and 
welcome, to name, date, and age ; rigidly interdict all 
flattery and folly. But I own it would feel pleasant to 
me to know the precise spot where those I have loved 
lay. I never feel quite sure which is my Lucy's * grave 
out of the family row. That I might have no doubt 
which was my mother Jesup's, I planted a tree at the 
foot of it, which is now three times my own height. 



* His wife's. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 41 



9 mo, 12, 1846. 



And now, my dear old friend of above twenty 
years' standing, I have two points on which I must try 
to right myself in thy good opinion — the swansdown 
waistcoat, and the bell, with the somewhat unquakerly 
inscription of "Mr. Barton's bell" graven above the 
handle thereof. I could not well suppress a smile at 
both counts of the indictment, for both are true to a 
certain extent, though I do not know that I should feel 
at all bound to plead guilty to either in a criminal one. 
It is true that prior to my birthday, now nearly t^^o 
years ago, my daughter, without consulting me, did 
work for me, in worsted work, as they do now-a-days 
for slippers, a piece of sempstress -ship or needle-craft, 
forming the forepart of a waistcoast ; the pattern of 
which, being rather larger than I should have chosen, 
had choice been allowed me, gave it some semblance of 
the striped or flowered waistcoats which for aught I 
know may be designated as swansdown ; but the colours, 
drab and chocolate, were so very sober, that I put it 
on as I found it, thinking no evil, and wore it, first 
and week-days, all last winter, and may probably 
through the coming one, at least on week-days. It is 
cut in my wonted single-breasted fashion ; and as my 
collarless coat, coming pretty forward, allows no great 
display of it, I had not heard before a word of scandal, 
or even censure on its unfriendliness. Considering 
who worked it for me, I am not sure had the royal arms 
been worked thereon, if in such sober colours, but I 
might have worn it, and thought it less fine and less 
fashionable than the velvet and silk ones which I have 
seen, ere now, in our galleries, and worn by Friends of 



42 LETTERS. 

higH standing and undoubted orthodoxy. But I attach 
comparatively little importance to dress, while there is 
enough left in the tout ensemble of the costume to give 
ample evidence that the wearer is a Quaker. So much 
for the waistcoat ; now for the bell ! I live in the back 
part of the Bank premises, and the approach to the 
yard leading to my habitat, is by a gate, opening out of 
the principal street or thoroughfare through our town. 
The same gate serving for an approach to my cousin's 
kitchen door, to a large bar -iron warehouse in the same 
yard, and I know not what beside. Under these cir- 
cumstances some notification was thought needful to 
mark the bell appertaining to our domicile, though I 
suppose nearly a hundred yards oif, and the bell- 
hanger, without any consultation with me, and with- 
out my knowledge, had put these words over the 
handle of the bell, in a recess or hole in the wall by the 
gate-side, and they had stood there unnoticed and un- 
observed by me for weeks, if not months, before I ever 
saw them. "When aware of their being there, having 
had no concern whatever in their being put there, 
having given no directions for their inscription, and 
not having to pay for them, I quietly let them stand ; 
and, until thy letter reached me, I have never heard 
one word of comment on said inscription as an im- 
quakerly one, for I believe it is well known among all 
our neighbours that the job of making two houses out 
of one was done by contract with artisans not of us, 
who executed their commission according to usual cus- 
tom, without taking our phraseology into account. 
Such, my good friend, are the simple facts of the two 
cases. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 43 



9 mo, 24, 1846. 



* * * I SHALL not be in any danger of 
quarrelling mth thee for thy kind and well-meant wishes 
and efforts to keep me, as far as in thee lies, in the smi- 
plicity of the truth, but I doubt whether, without more 
putter and bother than the thing is worth, the unlucky 
" iHf/-." can well be obliterated. The very idea of its 
being a title of flattery, so used, had not occurred to me, 
so I certainly had not felt flattered by it. But if ever 
the bell handle, or plate connected with it, should have 
to be repaired, a casualty which the jerks of idle run- 
aways may realize during our winter evenings, I pro- 
mise thee I will have the obnoxious letters removed for 
thy sake. 



10 mo, 23, 1847. 

TuppER and his Proverbial Philosophy are 
old familiar acquaintance of mine. There is good stuff 
in the book, but it strikes me as too wordy and inflated 
in its diction ; and is of a non-descript class in litera- 
ture — neither prose nor poetry. Thou wilt say, per- 
haps, the same objection applies to our old favourite, 
" The Economy of Human Life ;" but that, though Ori- 
ental in its style, like the language of the Old Testa- 
ment, affects much less of the rhythm and flow of verse. 



44 LETTERS. 

Besides, I have a notion, though I have not seen it now 
for many years, it was originally put forth as a pre- 
tended ancient MS., which may be an excuse for its 
pomp of phrase. Yet even Dodsley is far less inflated 
than Tupper. But compare either with the phraseology 
of Scripture, of which both are to a certain extent imi- 
tations, and their artificiality is very striking. The 
longer I live, Mary, the more I love a simple and natural 
tone of expression, and the more I eschew all sorts of 
Babylonish dialects. Tupper does better to dip into, 
and shines in quotation ; but like all artificial writers, 
is apt to become wearisome if long dwelt on. 



Thou hast inquired of me whether my views 
on Baptism and the Supper are at all changed or modi- 
fied by the precept or example of any of our seceding 
Friends. Not a whit. In my view, any trust or re- 
liance in the merely ceremonial rite of Water Baptism 
is so completely a being brought into bondage to the 
beggarly elements, as to be incompatible with the glori- 
ous liberty and entire spirituality of the Gospel dispensa- 
tion. Touching what is called the Sacrament, or Or- 
dinance, of the Suppe:^, though I am surprised that 
any who might have been hoped to have been made 
living partakers, spiritual communicants, of its substance 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 45 

and reality, should deem its outward literal observance 
obligatory ; yet when I look at the direct command 
given by our Lord to his immediate followers — " This 
do in remembrance of me ; " and when I consider that 
the early Christians, in some form or other, did so ob- 
serve it ; I can quite understand the view taken of the 
institution by the great body of our Christian bre- 
thren ; I can, I hope, appreciate the feeling with 
which it is often administered and received ; nor do I 
doubt, as a means of grace, it may be blessed in its use 
to many pious and devout communicants. So far I can 
go. But I do not the less firmly believe that our early 
Friends were rightly led and guided when they decided 
on its disuse as an essential article of faith, or a neces- 
sary part of Christian practice. The fearful liability to 
abuse ; the extreme danger of its degenerating into a 
mere form ; the endless and unprofitable disputations 
to which the mode and manner of its observance have 
given rise ; the mere fallacious and groundless trust 
which its mere outward participation is apt to engender 
in thoughtless and ignorant minds ; all these consider- 
ations are conclusive with me that it was part of a day, 
and dispensations of "meats and drinks, and divers 
washings," shadowy rites, and typical observances, out 
of which our devout and godly forefathers were called to 
a more pure and simple and spiritual faith and practice : 
and thus believing, I think they did well and wisely in 
rejecting it as binding on us. 



46 . LETTERS. 



TouCHiNa thy question of membership by birth- 
right; while I admit the objections to it are plausible, 
still more serious ones present themselves, in my view, 
to a departure from our present rule. The seceders, if 
I understand their objections aright, state that birth- 
right conferring membership is one cause why many of 
our Society grow up in a sort of traditional faith, be- 
lieving they hardly know what or why. In by-gone 
days there might be much truth in this ; at least, to a 
certain extent, I believe it was the case in many in- 
stances ; but in the present age of discussion and con- 
troversy, except in a very few cases, where Friends 
are very remotely secluded from general intercourse, 
this can scarcely be the case. Very few of our young 
Friends can be ignorant of the conflict of opinion which 
has been called forth, and still fewer I think could be 
found who must not, in* some way or other, have been 
put upon inquiring and thinking for themselves. The 
objections to considering none as members who have 
not attained an age warranting an application from 
them on the ground of real conviction to be received as 
such, strike me as serious and formidable. It must, as 
far as I see aught of its practical working, put all our 
young people out of the pale of our discipline ; for what 
valid right or plausible plea could we have to extend 
admonition, or exercise a vigilant and affectionate over- 
sight with respect to parties not in membership, conse- 
quently hardly amenable to the rules of a Society to 
which they had not yet joined themselves ? This step, 
as it appears to me, mast set our younger Friends free 
from all restraint, save that of parental or preceptoral 
authority and affection ; very good and very excellent 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 47 

in themselves, I own, but often requiring sympathy 
and aid from all available means. Where parents and 
preceptors were themselves indifferent to the testimo- 
nies held by Friends, in their own ease, is it at all 
likely they would enforce, I mean by persuasion, their 
observance, on the part of those intrusted to their 
charge ? As we are now situated, supposing our young 
people to incline to go to balls, concerts, plays, &c., even 
where their parents are by no means strict Friends, the 
thing is not often attempted, because such or such a one 
would hear of it, and it is hardly worth the fuss which 
would be made about it. Mind, I am not saying this is 
like a renunciation of the same gratification on prin- 
ciple ; but it may, for a brief and critical period of life, 
so far answer a good end that a young person shall be 
kept out of the way of much that might contaminate, 
and could not profit : with riper years the temptation 
to such gratifications may be weaker, more serious 
thoughts may have been awakened, better feelings 
called into action. But, not to confine our view to in- 
dulgences which sober and serious Christians of other 
denominations often deny themselves on religious prin- 
ciple, let us look further. As matters now stand, our 
young folks being all members, none of them could on 
the mere impulse of a sensibility very common to youth 
be led to a participation in the ordinances now repre- 
sented as so essential, without the case being brought 
under notice. But what imaginable right could Friends 
as a Society have to interdict a participation in such 
rites to persons not within its own pale, and owing no 
allegiance, positive or even implied, to our laws and 
testimonies ? Would not the ready and natural answer 
of a young person if spoken to under such circumstances 
be, " I am not a member ; of course I commit no sort of 



48 LETTERS. 

inconsistency, nor can I infringe a law to which I am 
in no way subject." When I consider the extremely 
plausible light in which it is easy to set both Baptism 
and the Supper, as essential rites, and especially en- 
joined: this too perhaps to the young, ardent, and 
susceptible, first awakened to serious thought and re- 
flection : I cannot think it prudent, nor do I think we 
are called on, to relax any of the rules of our discipline 
during a period when I believe their influence is most 
salutary. I would not for one moment forbid the use 
of these rites to any who have attained an age to en- 
able them to decide on their essentiality — if they then 
deem them imperative, let them by all means act on 
that conviction. But let us not expose the minds of 
mere children to be prematurely tampered with, and 
drawn away from our own simple and spiritual faith — 
if we hold that faith in earnest and honest sincerity 
ourselves. Such are a few of my thoughts on the sub- 
ject thou hast proposed : I have not time to dress them 
up in good set terms, or to enforce them by half the 
arguments which I think would fully justify and sup- 
port them. 



I MUST either have expressed myself ill, or thou 
must have misunderstood me, or made the remark in 
thine from memory, if the passage which struck thee 
in mine of there being very little difierence between 
our seceding Friends and us, be really of my penning. 
I might say that I felt quite unable to define what the 



TO 3rRS. SUTTON. 49 

belief or doctrine of our seceders were ; or to what ex- 
tent they differ from us, except as to what they term 
ordinances. But a difference on this point alone, is not 
in my view a little one. I hare no sort of controversy 
^y^X\l the good and the pious of other sects who have 
always thought it their duty to participate in such rites ; 
I have no desire to dispute with those who, amongst us, 
thinking such things to be essential, quietly leave us 
and join in religious profession with those who practise 
them. But I have an abiding and, for aught I can see, 
an interminable controversy with those who would still 
hold their membership with us by forcing on us the ob- 
servance of these rites, and mixing them up with our 
simpler and spiritual creed as part and parcel of a new- 
fangled system which they are pleased to call Evangeli- 
cal Quakerism. I get puzzled and bewildered among 
these nondescript novelties ; a sprinkling, or water- 
sprinkled, sacrament -taking Quaker is a sort of incon- 
gruous medley I can neither classify nor understand. 
Of their peculiar doctrines on other topics, how far they 
hold the exclusive dogmas of Calvin, I know not, nor do 
I care much to agitate such questions ; of the universal- 
ity of the offer of Divine grace to all I cannot doubt 
with the Bible before me ; and to suppose it offered 
where it has from eternity been immutably decreed it 
could not or would not be accepted, seems to my poor 
head and heart incompatible with Divine truth and 
goodness. But I have no wish, at fifty-four, to bother 
myself with splitting straws. " The mighty mystery of 
the atonement I desire to accept with humble and grate- 
ful reverence, to lay hold on the promises held out to 
me as a sinner, in the propitiatory sacrifice of the Re- 
deemer, to believe his own gracious promise that, * whoso 
cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' " And with 

E 



so LETTERS. 

the conviction of these blessed truths, I would not less 
desire to unite a firm and unshaken faith in the offices 
and agency of the Holy Spirit, its immediate teaching 
and guidance, its consolations and supports. Such are 
the fundamental truths, as I hold them, of my Christian 
creed ; for I cling to the old-fashioned Quaker profes- 
sion of them, as having fewer adjuncts of human in- 
vention to lessen their simple, spiritual, and, as I think, 
Scriptural beauty, than any other. I hope this brief 
and hasty summary may enable thee to get a glimpse of 
my faith, such as it is, and so far as I know it myself. 
But of all things I dislike the argumentative habit of 
critically dissecting every item of one's belief, and the 
systematizing and theorizing now so much in vogue. 
Pure spiritual true religion seeks not to darken counsel, 
•deaden feeling, and dim true light, by words without 
knowledge; and such seems to me the unprofitable 
tendency of no small portion of the teaching, whether 
oral or written, of our modern would-be instructors. 



How any sort of confusion of ideas should ex- 
ist among the real living and spiritually -minded among 
our own Society on this topic,* is a marvel and a mys- 
tery to me ; or would be, had not my own heart long 
ago taught me how very soon our spiritual perceptions 
become dim and doubtful, our best feelings deadened,' 

* The comparative importance of the Spirit, or the written word. 



TO 3rRS. SUTTON. 51 

and our judgment bewildered, when in our own strength 
and wisdom we set about forming systems and codes, 
and creeds of our own, classifying and arranging, ac- 
cording to our individual appreciation of their import- 
ance, truths and principles all revealed in their ele- 
mentary simplicity by the holy volume, all enforced by 
the teachings of God's Holy Spirit, and all meant, as I 
believe, to be gradually developed and unfolded to our 
individual states, uses, and needs, could we but content 
ourselves, with childish simplicity of heart, to accept 
them as God has given them. Taking with reverent 
and trutliful humility his outward manifestation of his 
word as given forth in Scripture ; accepting gratefully 
liis offered gift of the Spirit, and praying for its 
increase, that we may more and more, through its aid, 
understand those lively oracles of which it is the source ; 
and thereby coming to know in our individual experi- 
ence, that all the needful truths and essential doctrines 
revealed in the one, and unfolded, and enforced, and 
immediately applied by the other, must of necessity 
form one harmonious whole, in which, when we are 
aright instructed, we shall see no discrepancies or incon- 
sistencies. But it is the natural tendency of plunging 
into controversy about the comparative importance 
of dogmas and doctrines, to narrow our views, and to 
make us, in our eagerness to defend what appears at 
the moment of primary importance, regard that one 
topic or truth as the one thing needful — a term only to 
be applied to the whole, undivided, and harmonious 
gospel of our Lord, in its full completeness. 



E 2 



52 LETTERS. 



I DO not like to see one Divine gift pitted 
■against another, as if there were, ought to be, or could 
be, any rivalry between what must be in their very 
essence harmonious. I hold with the old faith of our 
early Friends, who were content thankfully to receive 
the Scriptures as a blessed and invaluable revelation of 
God's will ; yet so far from understanding them to be 
the sole emdjinal one, I conceive that one main end and 
intent of their being given forth, was to inculcate the 
knowledge of that Spirit whence they themselves pro- 
ceeded, to guide us to its teachings, to instruct us to 
wait for its influences, under a conviction that without 
its unfoldings even the lively oracles of God's Holy 
Writ may be to us a dead letter. If I am told there is 
a danger of these views leading to a fanatical trust in a 
fanatical inspiration of our own ; I can only reply, that 
I can see no such danger while we seek such aid and 
guidance in simplicity, godly sincerity, and deep hu- 
mility. Thus, I believe, were our early predecessors 
eminently led about and instructed. 



It was said by one of the early Fathers of the 
Christian church in his day of some who then with- 
drew themselves, " They went out from us because they 
were not of us ;" and the same may be said, I think, 
of many of the more active and conspicuous among our 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 53 

modern separatists. They knew not for themselves 
experhnentally and individually the life and power of 
that principle by which Friends were first gathered to be 
a people. For it never was, and never can be, attained 
by mere birthright, though outward membership is ; 
nor can it descend by inheritance. I can easily con- 
ceive how some have been led to take the part they have 
taken. Born and educated among us,, the latter per- 
haps at a time when religious instruction was less 
thought of than it ought to have been, they have grown 
up as young people, Friends in name and profession, but 
without ever having been grounded even in the elements 
of our peculiar principles. In some instances I know in- 
dividuals of this class, living perhaps in small meetings, 
and not often brought into intimate acquaintance or 
cordial intercourse with the more excellent of our body ; 
they have been first taught to think and feel seriously 
hj accidentally falling into the way of religious charac- 
ters not of our Society. In many such there is a warmth 
of ardour, an exuberance of zeal, a proneness to activity 
in the use of means, and a life in religious converse — 
all very sincere and cordial I believe on the part of 
many who indulge in them — which is naturally more 
taking to a newly awakened mind than the quiet man- 
ner, and patient waiting, and silent retirement, which 
our views of the spirituality of religion would recom- 
mend as likely to conduce to a real and effectual growth 
in grace. Take the case of any ordinary young person 
first awakened to serious thought and feeling, and sup- 
posing him or her to open their minds to not a few of 
our good Friends, very worthy and estimable folks in 
their way, but not exactly the sort of persons to deal 
with minds first awakened to religious sensibility — the 
passive nothingness, the patient waiting, the searching 



o4 LETTERS. 

after retirement, the abstinence from creaturely activity, 
which such might probably recommend, must come re- 
commended with great kindness and evident deep feeling 
to give it the least hope of success ; the least appear- 
ance of any frigidity or formality to a mind thus excited 
would close the door at once. Supposing, however, 
such a convert to fall at such a critical period in the 
way of one of our Beaconites, may we not fairly antici- 
pate a line of conduct prescribed much more likely to 
be acceptable — the study of the Bible — the belief of 
full, entire, and complete justification by faith alone — 
means excellent in themselves, rightly and well under- 
stood, would seem, no doubt, to such a one a more com- 
pendious mode of faith, and to the zeal of a new convert 
a more inviting one. I do not say that a pious and up- 
right inquirer might not, by following this counsel, 
come to the attainment of a sound Christian ; but he 
(one?) may become an adept in Biblical knowledge 
without imbibing its Divine spirit ; and, from a fear of 
mysticism and fanaticism, run into a theory quite as 
dangerous. For while I freely admit the doctrine of 
justification by faith as I find it simply and abstractedly 
given in the gospel, I cannot think it one to be ex- 
clusively enforced on the believer in all the stages of 
his Christian progress. Milk for babes, and meat for 
those of a riper and more mature growth, is, I believe, 
the diet prescribed not only by gospel wisdom, but em- 
phatically inculcated by the simple spiritual teaching of 
its Divine Founder. 



TO MRS. SUTTON. DO 

Dost thou remember a beautiful passage in 
Cowper — 

" Stillest streams 



Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 
That flutters least is longest on the wing.'* 

So I believe it may be said in our religious Societv, 
and, in fact, in any other denomination, that the most 
truly influential members, those who give to the body 
of -which they form the life and essence, to speak hu- 
manly, its form and pressure, and stamp on it the im- 
pression which proves it not counterfeit, but sterling ; 
these are not always the most prominent to the eye of 
superficial observation, and are seldom found among 
the loudest talkers ; they are rather silent preachers, 
by the practical and incontrovertible exposition of their 
lives and conversations, that they have not followed, 
nor are following, cunningly devised fables, but are 
partakers of that living and eternal substance, which is 
in fact the true life of religion in and under every name. 
In ordinary times such pursue, for the most part, the 
quiet and unobtrusive tenor of their way, doing each, 
in his or her own little sphere, whatever their hands 
find to do, but with so little display, that their hidden 
worth is scarce known, perhaps even to many of their 
own fellow professors, until circumstances or events out 
of the ordinary tract call on them to throw their weight 
into the scale one way or the other. Let a crisis arise, 
however, or an emergency occur, when the Master 
thinks fit to call them forward, or His cause demands 
their support, and it is wonderful how their influence 
is brought to bear on the right side, and how silently, 
yet overwhelmingly powerful that influence is rendered 
through the overruling providence of Divine grace. 



56 LETTERS. 

Of such working bees^ my good friend, it is my faith 
that our little hive possesses no small number. But 
my sheet is all but full. All I wish is, that we may 
each and all try to keep our proper places, exercise 
patience, forbearance, and love towards and with each 
other, and then I trust all will be well. There is 
always this risk in controversy, we are very apt to 
misunderstand each other, and not very prone rightly 
to know ourselves ; but if vital and fundamental prin- 
ciples are to be attacked, they must be defended ; may 
it be in the spirit of meekness and love. 



The more I see, or rather hear, of this la- 
mentable controversy, the more I am convinced that 
they who first agitated it acted unwisely and unwell in 
doing so. I cannot believe that to have had a right 
origin which by its natural and almost inevitable results 
tends to disunion, disputatiouj^ and all uncharitableness. 



The Society itself, so far as I have any sight, 
sense, and feeling of its faith and practice, has in no 
respect falsified its own original and fundamental doc- 
trines. Practically indeed we may not be, and I fear 
we are not, the plain, simple, single-hearted, self-deny- 
ing people that our forefathers were. The absence of 
all that can be called persecution ; the substitution of 
the world's respect for its scorn, of its smiles for its 



TO MRS. SUTTON. 07 

frowns ; the progress of refinement and luxury, and 
many other operating causes of a much less exception- 
able nature ; have gradually more assimilated the bulk 
of our Society to the mass of our fellow Christians. 
But I am not at all aware that, in our collective capa- 
city as a body, we have avowedly departed from the 
faith of our ancestors. Nor do I find that our seceding 
brothers and sisters leave us under the plea of any such 
departure, but simply because we refuse to give up the 
principles and practices, the declaration and adoption of 
which formed the rallying point and starting post of our 
founders, humanly speaking, as a section of the Chris- 
tian church. 



In science and art the progress of discovery 
may bring much to light, and the wisest of men in 
these matters may have much to learn and to unlearn. 
But in the grand and essential truths of the gospel, I 
see not why our forefathers were not as Kkely to be 
right as we can be. I know of no fresh sources of re- 
ligious instruction, no undiscovered or undeveloped 
fountain of religious knowledge to which we in our day 
can have access, from which our pious ancestors were 
excluded. And I am yet to learn what oracles of Di- 
vine truth we can consult, with which thev were not 
familiar. They had the outward and written word, in 
which the will of God is recorded, in their hands, and 
they certainly were not likely to be strangers to that 
inspeaking word, the voice of his Spirit ; that insliining 
light which enlightens every regenerate Chi'istian, to 
which they were the first peculiarly to appeal. 



58 LETTERS. 



In all human institutions, whether political 
or ecclesiastical, there is a rise and fall — a state of in- 
fancy, manhood, and, at last, of declension and de- 
crepitude ; but in proportion as the bond of union 
cementing them is inward and spiritual, they are likely 
to be transitory or enduring. It is this spirit, or living 
essence of religion itself, without reference to forms 
and modes which are of necessity ephemeral, that forms 
the life and power on which the church of Christ is 
based, and by which its living members of all sects, 
names, and denominations are united in one fellowship. 
It may therefore be hoped for and believed that, as far 
as any Society has been led from types and shadows, 
external rites and ceremonies, to seek a more spiritual 
faith, its purity and permanency are in some degree 
pledged by its simplicity. It has long been my belief 
and conviction that the principles of Friends, rightly 
understood, form the most pure, most simple, and most 
spiritual code of faith and doctrine which the Christian 
world exhibits; and, under this belief, I can entertain 
no fear of the decline or overthrow of them. Whether 
the body first raised up to propagate them, or their 
successors to whom the maintenance of these testimonies 
is now intrusted, may have their name as a people per- 
petuated I cannot presume to anticipate, but for the 
principles themselves I entertain no apprehension, be- 
cause I believe them to be those of the everlasting and 
unchangeable gospel of Christ. Nor do I think that 
the time is yet come for us to be blotted out of the list 
of those sections of the universal church of Christ, 
which constitute all together his temple on earth. 



TO MRS. SUTTOX. 59 



All that I have heard, seen, or read, only 
strengthens my attachment to old-fashioned Quakerism. 
I do not mean that in every iota of manners, habits, 
and practice, we are bound to follow the example of 
those who lived more than a century and a half ago, 
when the Society was in a very different state. But in 
all essential points of faith and doctrine I am more and 
more convinced those old worthies were substantially 
sound. 



I BELIEVE the unity of the one Catholic and 
comprehensive church to be a unity of spirit and feel- 
ing, and not only to be perfectly compatible with many 
diversities of opinion as to particular doctrines, rites, 
and ceremonies, but entirely independent of them. I 
should be sorry not to feel somewhat of that unity with 
many from whom I differ widely in many and various 
respects. Who but must feel it for Kempis ? yet this 
by no means implies any accordance with the Eomish 
Eitual, of which, I believe, he was a docile and dutiful 
votary — though he lived and wrote far beyond the let- 
ter and rule of his professed creed, in a spirit of the 
most pure, enlightened, and spiritual Christianity. 



TO MB. CLEMISHA. 



[This correspondent travelled about England in the way of busi- 
ness, and wrote to Mr. B. from various places in the course of 
his journey, specifying always when and where an answer might 
reach him on the road: a sort of "Bo-peep'' correspondence, 
as Mr. B. wrote to him — " When I say ' Peep' at one place, 
thy *Bo' comes from another."] 



London, 7 mo, 8, 1843. 

I NEVER fancy to myself, that much, if aught, 
of personal identity can hang about folks in London ; 
that they can see, hear, smell, or think, talk, and feel, 
as people do in the country. I can obscurely under- 
stand how Cockneys born and bred, or such as are even 
long resident in Cockaigne, and therefore native to 
that strange element, may in course of time acquire a 
sort of borrowed nature, and by virtue of it, a kind of 
artificial individuality ; but I never was in London long 
enough to get at this, and have always seemed, when 
there, not to he myself^ but very much as if I were 
walking in a dream, or like a bit of sea-weed blown off 
some cliff or beach, and drifting with the current — one 
knew not why or how. In a coffee-room, up one of 



TO MR. CLEMISHA. 61 

those queer long dark inn yards, I have felt more like 
myself ; — there is more of quiet ; folks often sit in boxes 
apart, and talk in a kind of under-tone ; or when they 
do not, the united effect of so many voices becomes a 
sort of indistinct hum or buzz, relieved at intervals by 
the swinging to and fro of the coffee-room door, the 
clatter of plates, the jingle of glasses, or the rustle of 
the newspaper often turned over. I have spent an hour 
or two after my fashion in this way, at the Four Swans, 
Belle Sauvage, Bolt in Tun, Spread Eagle, and other 
coach houses, by no means unpleasantly, seemingly 
reading the paper, and sipping my tea or coffee, wine 
or toddy, but really catching some amusing scraps of 
the talk going on round, and speculating on the cha- 
racters of the talkers. But the greatest luxury London 
had to give, is gone with my poor old friend Allan 
Cunningham. It was worth something to steal out of 
the din and hubbub of crowded streets into those large, 
still, cathedral-like rooms of Chantrey's, populous with 
phantom-like statues, or groups of statues, as large or 
larger than life ; some tinted with dust and time, others 
of spectral whiteness, but all silent and solemn; to 
roam about among these, hearing nothing but the dis- 
tant murmur of rolling carriages, now and then the clink 
of the workman's chisel in some of the yards or work- 
shops, but chiefly the low, deliberate, often amusing, 
and always interesting talk of honest Allan, in broad 
Scotch. A morning of this sort was well worth going 
up to London on purpose for. 



62 LETTERS. 



11 mo. 16, 1843 



I AM not a little diverted by thy taking-on 
somewhat about the irksome monotony and confinement 
of a fortnight's spell at the desk and figure work, and 
seeming to thyself like a piece of machinery in conse- 
quence. I have really been so unfeeling as to have a 
hearty laugh about the whole affair. Why, man ! I 
took my seat on the identical stool I now occupy at the 
desk, to the wood of which I have now well-nigh grown, 
in the third month of the year 1810 ; and there I have 
sat on for three and thirty blessed years, beside the odd 
eight months, without one month's respite in all that 
time. I believe I once had a fortnight ; and once in 
about two years, or better, I get a week ; but all my 
absences put together would not make up the eight odd 
months. I often wonder that my health has stood this 
sedentary probation as it has, and that my mental fa- 
culties have survived three and thirty years of putting 
down figures in three rows, casting them up, and carry- 
ing them forward ad infinitum. Nor is this all — for 
during that time, I think, I have put forth some half 
dozen volumes of verse ; to say nothing of scores and 
scores of odd bits of verse contributed to Annuals, 
Periodicals, Albums, and what not ; and a correspond- 
ence implying a hundred times the writing of all these 
put together : where is the wonder that on the verge 
of sixty I am somewhat of a prematurely old man, with 
odds and ends of infirmities and ailments about me, 
which at times are a trial to the spirits and a weariness 
to the flesh ? But all the grumbling in the world would 
not mend the matter, or help me, so I rub and drive on 
as well as I can. 



TO MR. CLEMISHA. 63 



6 mo, 13, 1844. 

I A3I not over-fond of polemicals ; thej are 
almost as bad as galenicals. How our tastes alter with 
added years and enlarged experience I I was once an 
eager disputant about matter and spirit, free-^AT.11 and 
necessity, Unitarianism and Trinitarianism, and almost 
all other isms ; and was in a fair way of becoming a 
sceptic. Happily I found out, I hope in time to avert 
such a catastrophe, that a man never stands so fair a 
chance of making a fool of himself as he does when he 
begins to fancy himself wiser than all around him. It 
is no uncommon thing to find a man overtaken in liquor 
taking vast pains to convince you he is perfectly sober ; 
I require no further confirmation of his being drunk, 
or verging that way ; for a man who is sober, seldom, 
if ever, takes the trouble to prove the fact. In like 
manner, if I meet any one who gives himself airs for 
having enlarged views, liberal principles, and freedom 
from all the vulgar prejudices by wliich common minds 
are enslaved, I have a lurking distrust that he is, with- 
out knowing it, a narrow-minded bigot, and very likely 
to have taken up worse prejudices than those which he 
has been trying to shake off. 



TO MISS H- 



7 mo, 29, 1840. 

Do not let thy zeal for a Church* which I 
have a lurking love for myself, inasmuch as Izaak 
Walton's worthies all belonged to it, put thee in any 
unnecessary fright about my dreaming of making a 
convert of thee from said Church to any ism of my own. 
In the first place, my dear, I am not one of those who 
would compass sea and land to make proselytes — in the 
second, I am by no means sure that my ism would suit 
either thy mental or physical temperament as it does 
mine — and, thirdly, I have my suspicions whether I do 
not like thee best as a Churchwoman, always as- 
suming thy honours to be borne with meekness, gentle- 
ness, and charity. Day, the author of Sandford and Mer- 
ton, once fell in love with Anna Seward ; but having 
more of the Spartan than of the dandy in him, Miss S. 
did not like his manners, and told him so : — poor Day 
went to France to polish — came back, and resumed his 
suit ; when Miss S. frankly told him she liked Tom 
Day the blackguard better than Tom Day the beau — so 
he ''took nothing^'' as the lawyers phrase it, by this 
motion. 

* The Church of England. 



TO ]!mss H . 65 



5 7710, 20, 1841. 



T FORGET whether I told thee in my last of 
mj going to the funeral of a very sweet, interesting girl 
of nineteen, at my favourite village at Play ford, a fort- 
nio'ht aofo. She was the third dauofhter of two valued 
friends of mine ; her mother a very old friend of mine 
from childhood, and, till her marriage, a Quaker. As 
her religious principles were unaltered by marriage, 
thouofh she went to church with her husband and chil- 
dren regularly, none of their children were baptized in 
infancy, their mother T\T.shing their joining in full 
church membership should be their own act when they 
were able to think for themselves. As they have grown 
up to an age capable of deciding, I believe they have so 
united themselves' to your Church. This lovely girl 
had done so only about a month prior to the rupture of a 
blood-vessel, which brought on rapid consumption, and 
carried her off in a fortnight. I went over to the fune- 
ral by invitation, and certainly of all the funerals I 
ever attended it was one of the most affecting, from the 
oneness of feeling and the audible manifestations of 
grief on the occasion. The parties who had been her 
sponsors at baptism a few weeks before, were, Clarkson 
the Abolitionist, and his widowed daughter. On our 
arrival at the little village church I found them quietly 
seated in their pew, into which I went. But when 
the bier had to pass us up the aisle, the poor old man, 
now verging on eighty years of age, was so broken 
down that he had no alternative but to give way to it, 
and in the emphatic language of Scripture he fairly 
lifted up his voice and wept aloud. The family of the 
deceased occupied the next pew, and a twin brother, 

F 



66 LETTERS. 

who had with great effort kept his grief under some 
control, soon gave way ; — even the clergyman, by his 
low and tremulous voice as he began the lesson, seemed 
hardly equal to his task. But as his voice became 
stronger and firmer, tranquillity was restored. By the 
grave-side, however, the scene again became quite 
overpowering. A chair had been set at the head of the 
grave for poor old Clark son, very considerately, but he 
had to be supported in it, and the audible uncontrol- 
lable expression of sorrow on every hand was truly 
heart-touching. When the usual service was ended, 
the clergyman stated that it was the wish of the de- 
ceased, or rather of her relatives, that a little hymn 
which had ever been a great favourite of hers, should 
be sung on this occasion, and he had much pleasure in 
complying with the request. After a few minutes, 
way was made for the children of the village school, 
which this estimable girl had almost made and man- 
aged, to come up to the grave-side — about twenty or 
twenty-five little things, with eyes and cheeks red with 
crying : I thought they could never have found tongues, 
poor things ; but once set off, they sung like a little 
band of cherubs. What added to the effect of it, to me, 
was that it was a little almost forgotten hymn of my 
own, written years ago ; which no one present, but my- 
self, was at all aware of. 



TO MISS H . 67 

[On some Church-of-England zealots.] 

7 mo, 26, 1840. 

Such men are like the good prophet who was 
very jealous for the Lord God of hosts, and believed 
that he only was left to serve Him; unto whom the 
Lord's own words were, '- Yet I have left me seven 
thousand in Israel, who had not bowed the knee to Baal." 
And thus I believe it is now-a-days with some of those 
to whom I now refer — they would hardly regard as 
Christians many who conscientiously dissent from the 
Church of England. I regret this for their sakes ; but 
such persuasion on their part cannot unchristianize any 
humble believer in Christ. Happily, we shall not in 
the great day of account sit in judgment on one another, 
but shall all stand before the tribunal of One who can- 
not err, and whose mercy is as boundless as his justice 
is unchangeable. Such, unhappily, is (however) the 
infirmity of our nature, that sometimes, in proportion 
to our own zeal and devotedness to what we regard as 
the voice of God, given forth in his holy word, is our 
interpretation of all who do not read that blessed word 
through our own spectacles. Like those disciples of 
old, who went to the Saviour, saying, " We saw one 
casting out devils in Thy name, and we forbade him, 
because he followeth not us ;" — there are those who 
seem as if they had never asked themselves touching a 
professing fellow Christian differing from themselves 
in certain points : " Does he believe in our one com- 
mon Master ? Does he look for salvation through His 
cross ? Has he been born again of His Spirit ? Do his 
life and the pervading tone of his spirit bear evidence 

F 2 ' 



68 LETTERS. 

that lie has been with Jesus?" These are not the 
questions — the one to be first answered is, ivhether he 
followeth us? — " 'Tis true 'tis pity : pity 'tis 'tis true !" 
But such is human nature when warped by either sect- 
arianism or Churchanity ; for this sad spirit is by no 
means monopolized by your ultras on the Church side. 
I have seen some of the old orthodox Dissenters, of the 
genuine crab -stock stamp, woefully leavened with the 
same spirit ; and, what made it the worse, some of these 
zealots on both sides were and are persons who, God- 
ward and man -ward, were alike "sans peur et sans 
reproche ;" men whose praise Vfas and is justly heard 
in their respective Churches ; only, alas ! men mis- 
taking a part for the whole, and taking their own one- 
sided view of Christianity as the only true one, instead 
of looking at it in its full and entire completeness, and 
imbibing that generous and comprehensive spirit which 
is its very essence. 



TO MARY W , ON THE DEATH OF HER 

FATHER. 

12 mo, 17, 1842. 

Our poor frail and infirm nature, dear Mary, 
is sadly prone to render us unjust to ourselves, as well 
as unthankful to our heavenly Father, under such trials 
as these. We hear no moi^e the voice we loved — we 
see no more the form so dear to us — for we still dwell 



TO MISS H . 69 

in these clay houses : but could we see, as we (for 
aught we know) are seen by those dear to us, who are 
unclothed of mortality, should we then say there was 
no union or communion left between us and the loved 
ones who are gone but a little, perhaps, before us ? O, 
believe it not ! — Thy beloved father is as much thy 
father in his present happiness as in his past helpless- 
ness. 



Aldehurgh, 7 mo, 19, 1844. 
My dear Friend, 

This is our nearest Suffolk watering-place ; 
and having had to fag harder than usual of late, I de- 
termined yesterday to enjoy a quiet sabbath by the sea. 
So I have persuaded Tills to drive me down. We have 
no Quakerly meeting-house here, and, having come 
down for the express purpose of inhaling the sea- 
breezes, I have resolved on getting all I can of them. 
Tills is gone to church, and has left me alone in a de- 
lightful room, from the window of v>"hich I could throw 
a stone into the German Ocean. I have therefore set 
the window open, drawn the table close u]d to it, and 
have been seated for the last half hour, lulled by the 
ripple of the waves on the beach, and drawing in at 
every breath, I hope, some renewal of health and spirits 
for the desk-work of the next fortnight. 



TO ELIZABETH AND MAEIA C- 

[Describing pictures in his study.] 



5 mo, 14, 1842. 

* * On each side of the window hangs a 
portrait, and a third portrait, of old Chambers, the 
itinerant poetaster, hangs in one corner ; the last-named 
was painted by Mendham, of Eye, the same self-taught 
Suffolk artist who painted the Old Man and Child, that 
hangs over the piano. The other two portraits are quite 
unknown to thee, but I hope one day or other to show 

them to thee. They were picked up by E. F in 

his exploratory visits to brokers' shops about town. 
One is a portrait of Stothard the painter, by Northcote, 
a careless, hasty oil sketch, but very effective and 
pleasing, being, in truth, a speaking likeness of a be- 
nevolent, happy, and intelligent -looking gentleman of 
between sixty and seventy, perhaps nearer the latter 
than the former, if, indeed, the original were not more 
than seventy. Any how it is a delightful specimen of 
green old age, placid and cheerful. The other, Edward 
will have to be the portrait, by anticipation, of Bill 
Sykes, in Oliver Twist. I call it Peter Bell ! The 
fellow has, I own, a somewhat villanous aspect, and his 
arms are brought forward in a way that conveys a 
fearful suspicion that his hands, luckily not given, are 



TO ELIZABETH AND 3IARIA C . 71 

fettered. His elf-locks look as thej had never known 
sizzors, (I don't believe I have spelt that word right, but 
I never had to write it before,) but had been hacked 
away with a blunt knife ; his upper lip and all the lower 
part of the face cannot have been shaven for a week ; yet 
there is a touch of compunction about the full, dark, and 
melancholy eyes, which will not allow me to pronounce 
the fellow altogether bad. The broker who sold it to 
Edward, called it a portrait of a gamekeeper, and said 
it was by Northcote. I opine it to be by Opie. Fuseli 
once said in his caustic way, that Opie never painted 
any characters so well as cut-throats and villains, and 
acquitted himself best in these when he studied his own 
features well in a glass, before he sat down to his easel ; 
but that was ^dle on the part of Fuseli, for I have seen 
a portrait of Opie without a taint of villany. But be 
the thing hanging before me by whom it may, or a sem- 
blance of whom it will, I would not take a £10 note for 
it. It can be no fancy sketch; there is a reality about 
it there is no mistaking. 



7 mo, 16, 1842. 
My dear Libby, 

My good cousin Bessy A , from G 



has been L.'s guest more than a week, and the day after 
she came I told her that I expected a letter from Libby 
G — on the morrow. On her wanting to know tvhi/ I 
expected such an arrival, I gave her divers most excel- 
lent reasons ; reasons enough to satisfy the most in- 



72 LETTERS. 

credulous. I had written to thee I know not how long 
before ; I had sent thee, and lent thee the world and 
all of rhymes ; and had furnished thee with a subject 
on which to write more, which confessedly took thy 
fancy, so that I was in daily expectation of reaping the 
fruit, a golden harvest. I put her in mind that it was 
no effort in the world to thee to write letters. In short, 
I argued the point with her in a manner the most con- 
vincing, but I convinced her not that a letter would 
come on the morrow. Nor did I convince L — ; but 
then, from never writing letters herself, she has grown 
into an unbeliever, or nearly so, that letters are to be 
written. However no letter has come, and I begin to 
grow sceptical myself, not as to the fact of letters being 
writeable, but as to there being such a person as E. C — 
to write them, unless they are to reach one through that 
mysterious office which used to convey Mrs. Rowe's 
letters from the dead to the living. I begin to have the 
oddest and queerest misgivings as to whether that mi- 
gratory life of thine thou hast lived so long, may not 
have attenuated all that was bodily in thee into air, thin 
air ! and when one begins to admit a doubt as to the 
bodily existence of an old correspondent, hosts of thick- 
coming fancies flock in ; if I begin to doubt whether 
there be now a Libby C — in positive and real substance 
moving about on this world of ours, what proof have I 
there ever was such a person ? I once read a very in- 
genious treatise written to show that there never was 
such a person as Napoleon ; methinks I could write one 
full as plausible to show that there never was an Eliza- 
beth C — . While I kept on having letters from thee, 
a sort of vague idea that there was some where a some- 
body, or something, corporeal or spiritual, or both, which 
answered — being so addressed or apostrophized, tended 



TO ELIZABETH AND MARIA C . 73 

to perpetuate the idea of thy reality. I could think of 
thee, as one does of the wandering Jew of antiquity, and 
I had thoughts of addressing thee in verse, with these 
lines of Wordsworth for my motto — 

" O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bhd? 
Or but a wandering voice?'* 

but the voice having ceased to make its responses, I am 
at a loss what to think, or to do ; so I just scribble these 
lines as a sort of last resource, a forlorn hope. 



TO MARIA c . 

10 mo, 17, 1844. 

I ao out so rarely that I am in a state of be- 
wilderment on such occasions, and seem to myself to be 
as one walking in a dream. It can therefore hardly be 
strange that I should have lost thy letter, having at that 
period lost myself. — Don't think it any mark of disre- 
spect to thyself, for had I been favoured with one from 
the queen of Sheba, on the theory of Mrs. Elizabeth 
Eowe's " Letters from the Dead to the Living," it would 
in all likelihood have fared no better. How should a 
man be a safe keeper of anything, when, a change of lo- 
cality having clean taken him out of himself, he is no 
longer, in fact, himself. I have been home two days, 
but I am not myself yet. It will take a good fortnight 
ere I shall fully regain my personal identity. I keep 
picking up, in. lucid intervals, first one and then another 



74 



LETTERS. 



of the disjuncta membra of mj old self — as children put 
together a dissected puzzle, which they have a vague 
memorj of having put together before. But enough of 
this confused babble. 



Woodbridge, 9 mo, 4, 1844. 
Dear Maria. 

Does not this "look like business?" as Con- 
stable's men said to my artist friend, when he set up 
his easel behind Flatford Mill, to paint Willy Lott's 
house. I have hardly started thee from our gate, when 
I am in my cabin writing a letter, or letteret, to greet 
thee at the morrow's breakfast table. What I shall 
find to put into it, I will not now stop to ask myself. 
First and foremost, Lucy and the monkey* send all 
sorts of kind and cordial greetings, which they say must 
be specially welcome after the absence of a whole night. 
Secondly, we are all of us charmed with your flying 
visit, and should have been still more charmed had it 
been a less flying one, for the whole thing was such a 
whirl, there was not time to group you in tableaux, far 
less to study or contemplate you individually ; it was for 
all the world like a peep into a kaleidoscope, before the 
component items have shaped themselves into any sym- 
metrical whole ; and so you keep flitting before my 
vision at this moment. Grandmamma prominent one 
minute, then those Tivetshall girls, then Libby and thee. 

* A pet niece. 



TO ELIZABETH AND ^lARIA C . 75 

Then come Samuel and the Etonian, and Miss B — brinor- 
ing up the rear. It was certainly a thing to be thankfu I 
for, to get such a group together, even to have a glimpse 
of, but one can hardly help regretting it was for a 
glimpse only. Old proverbs, 'tis true, say somewhat of 
welcoming the coming and speeding the parting guest. 
But the latter was scarcely necessary when guests speed 
themselves off so rapidly. However, I will not grumble, 
but try and be most thankful for the moment you did 
give us. 



TO ME. FULCHER, 



EDITOR AND PUBLISHER OF 



THE SUDBURY POCKET BOOK. 



10 mo, 29, 1832. 

Thy packet of Pocket Books, for which I 
thank thee, reached me on Saturday night. 

The poetry, original and selected, is, I think, quite 
on a par with that of former years — with one exception, 
to which I shall refer presently ; only, that I think thou 
art somewhat too partial to Robert Montgomery in thy 
gleanings. Tastes, to be sure, have a proverbial right 
to differ — but I never could get through a volume of 
Robert's yet. But I am too eager to get to my excep- 
tion in thy original poetry, to say another word about 
the bard of Satan. 

That exception, then, has reference to the first piece 
— " The dying Infant " — to which I see thy initials are 
appended, and which I pronounce to be as much supe- 
rior to any piece which has yet appeared in any of thy 
Pocket Books as the poetry of James is to that of Ro- 
bert Montgomery. They say poets are loth to award 
cordial praise to the efforts of their contemporaries, 
but I will praise this most heartily ; nor do I at all be- 
lieve that any one of the forthcoming annuals, with all 



TO ]MR. FULCHER. 77 

tlieir proud pretence and lists of eminent contributors, 
will have a piece at all approaching to it in excellence. 
Marry, an' thou writest such stanzas, I shall fight shy 
of figuring in thy pages as a foil to their Editor's own 
contributions. I do not know that I shall not turn 
Pocket Book Reviewer for the mere purpose of making 
the poem known ; but it is needless. 

Thine in haste, 

B. B. 

P. S. Don't bother me about politics, which I care 
not a rush about (by comparison) while I can have such 
nursery rhymes to read. 



The following is the very pretty poem to which Mr 
Barton alludes : — 

THE DYING CHILD. 

" What should it know of death ? ''—Wordsworth. 

Come closer, closer, dear Mamma, 

My heart is filled with fears ; 
My eyes are dark, I hear your sobs, 

But cannot see your tears. 

I feel your warm breath on my lips. 

That are so icy cold ; — 
Come closer, closer, dear Mamma, 

Give me your hand to hold. 

I quite forget my little hymn, 

" How doth the busy bee," 
Which every day I used to say, 

When sitting on your knee. 

Nor can I recollect my prayers ; 

And, dear Mamma, you know 
That the gi^eat God will angry be, 

If I forget them too. 



78 LETTERS, 



And dear Papa, when he comes home, 

Oh will he not be vex'd ? 
" Give us this day our daily bread ;" — 

What is it that comes next ? 

" Thine is the kingdom and the power :" — 

I cannot think of more, 
It comes and goes away so quick. 

It never did before. 

" Hush, Darling ! you are going to 

The bright and blessed sky, 
Where all God's holy children go. 

To live with him on high.*' 

But will he love me, dear Mamma, 

As tenderly as you ? 
And will my own Papa, one day, 

Come and live with me too ? 

But you must first lay me to sleep, 

Where Grand-papa is laid : 
Is not the Churchyard cold and dark. 

And sha'n't I feel afraid ? 

And will you every evening come. 

And say my pretty prayer 
Over poor Lucy's little grave. 

And see that no one's there ? 

And promise me, whene'er you die, 

That they your grave shall make 
The next to mine, that I may be 

Close to you when I wake. 

Nay, do not leave me, dear Mamma, 

Your watch beside me keep : 
My heart feels cold — the room's all dark ; 

Now lay me down to sleep : — 

And should I sleep to wake no more, 

Dear, dear Mamma, good-bye : 
Poor nurse is kind, but oh do you 

Be with me when I die ! 

G. W. F. 



TO MR. FULCHER. 79 



[On proposing a portrait of Jemmy Chambers * as a frontispiece 
for Mr. Fulcher's " Ladies' Pocket Book."] 

4 mo, 6, 1838. 

Ladies are somewhat fond of pet oddities. 
An old tattered, weather-beaten object, like old Cham- 
bers, is the very thing to take their fancies. Why, when 
the poor wi^etch was living, and had located himself 
hereabouts, his best friends were the ladies. When 
they stopped to speak to the old man, to be sure, they 
would get to windward of him as a matter of taste ; for 
he was a walking dunghill, poor fellow, most of his 
wardrobe looking as if it had been picked off some 
such repositories, and his hands and face bearing evi- 

* One of those Edie Ochiltrees, who, by virtue of a Blue Gown, 
or of a genius that will not be gainsaid, are privileged to go about 
a neighbourhood and pick up a scanty subsistence from the charity 
and curiosity of the inhabitants. He was bom at Soham, in Cam- 
bridgeshire ; but for the latter years of his life wandered about 
Woodbridge, housing himself at times in a half-ruined cottage 
called Cold Hall, on a hill overlooking the town and river. " His 
poetry, or what he put forth as such," wrote Mr. Barton again, 
" was poor doggerel ; but he himself, and the life he led, are (or 
were) full of poetry: — now sleeping in a barn, cow-house, or cart- 
shed; at others, in woods; but always ^in the eye of nature,' as 
Daddy Wordsworth said of his Cumberland beggar." So Jemmy 
Chambers went about, with two or three dogs for company, one 
of which he carried in his arms. No gift of clothes could induce 
him to keep them or himself clean; he would not stay in a house 
that was once fitted up for him. He died about twenty-five years 
ago. The portrait here spoken of represents him in his dirty 
habits as he lived, about to indite some of his acrostics, his dogs 
about him, and he himself a vigorous old man with a face like 
Homer's. 



80 LETTERS. 

dent marks of liis antipathy to soap and water. Yet, 
though he was the very opposite of a lady's lap-dog, 
curled, combed, washed, and perfumed, he had his in- 
terest, and it was pretty effective too, with the sex. 
His wretched appearance was sure to appeal to their 
compassion : the solitary wandering life he led, his re- 
puted minstrel talent, some little smattering of book- 
learning, which he would now and then display — in 
short, I might write a regular treatise, giving very 

philosophical reasons why C was quite a " lady's 

man." 

As to thy election politics, I pity thee. Politics of 
any sort, or of all sorts, are not to my taste ; but those 
connected with electioneering tactics are the most 
loathsome. I would as soon turn in three in a bed with 
two like Chambers, as go through the endurance of an 

election at I or S . Believe me, this is 

no "fagon de parler" — for I should be truly sorry a 
dog of mine, for whose respectability I felt the least 
regard, should be put in nomination for either place. 



11 mo, 3, 1842. 

This very sudden news of poor Allan Cun- 
ningham's death has both shocked and grieved me. I 
had a letter from him on Friday morning last — I suspect 
the last he wrote — it was in his old cordial, kindly 
tone, but evidently written by an invalid. So I sat me 
down on Saturday night, and wrote him a long epistle, 
urging him to come down to Lucy and me for a week. 



TO MR. FULGHER. - 81 

as I was quite in hopes a fe^v days' country air and 
quiet relaxation would do him good. I exerted all my 
powers of persuasion as eloquently as I could, of course 
to no purpose, for at the very time I was writing he was 
dying. And so I have lost my old favourite — him whom 
Charles Lamb used to call the ** large-hearted Scot" — 
and a large and warm heart he had of his own. It 
seems to me now as if I never would give a fig to go to 
town again. The very last time I was there, Lucy and 
I spent a morning at Chantrey's, walking with Allan 
about those great rooms, each of them as big as a little 
cathedi^al, and swarming with statues — busts and groups 
— many as large as life — all still as death. It was worth 
somewhat to sit at the foot of some grand mass of stone 
or marble, and hear Allan talk about Sir Walter Scott, 
and Sir Francis, and Wilkie, and Burns ; — or when he 
was still, and we as mute, to look round at all those 
glorious works of art, till we ourselves seemed to grov/ 
into stone like them ; — and now and then the din of the 
great Babel without, faintly heard there, would come 
upon us likt^ echoes from another world, Tvnth which we 
then had no concern. We shall never go there more. 
Sir Francis and Allan, both then living, are now dead 
as the wonders they created ; — the rooms are stripped ; 
— and there's an end of that beautiful chapter in one's 
little life. 



82 LETTERS. 

5 mo, 31, 1843. 
My dear Friend, 

I AM not over-much taken with either thy 
frontispiece or vignette * — I mean, as subjects for poetry 
— for, as architectural drawings, I own thej are very 
pretty. Thou hast very cleverly hinted how they might 
become matters for rhyme — 

" But we, wlio make no honey though we sting, 
Poets — are sometimes apt to maul the thing." 

There is somewhat to me bordering on a sad joke in 
building a splendid Corn Exchange, and surmounting it 
by figures wielding the sickle or holding the plough, 
when what is termed the agricultural interest, and those 
concerned in it, are either ruined or on the brink of being 
so. Again, of your Town Hall, its antiquity is its sole 
poetical feature. After the unenviable notoriety your 
auld town has of late acquired, for what it has witnessed 
of your election doings, truth to speak, "least said is 
soonest mended." I think, were I a free burgess, I 
should prefer its senatorial honours should, for the pre- 
sent, remain unsung. 

My daughter requests me to say, with her best regards 
to Mrs. F. and thyself, that she earnestly hopes thy 
next will have no blue ink printing in it ; for it is a sore 
trial to the eyesight. I have heard many others make 
the same complaint. Whig as I am, I could much sooner 
forgive thee thy blue "j" politics than thy blue ink ; the 
first are no bore to me, for I no more trouble myself 

* Sent to him to rhyme upon, for Mr. Fulcher's Pocket Book, 
t Bhie is the colour of the Tory party in Suffolk — Yellow, of 
the Whig. 



TO MR. FULCHER. 83 

about the colour of a man's politics, than about the co- 
lour of the coat he may choose to wear ; but I would 
not wish thj Pocket Book to be unreadable while I 
write poetry for it. 



1 mo, 21, 1844. 

I HAVE been sad and sick at heart for several 
weeks, owing to the illness and death of an only and 
favourite sister ; and just as the raw edge of that wound 
was abating of its first anguish, have another trial to 
encounter which costs me little less of heart-sorrow. 

My old and dear friend. Dr. L , who for eight and 

thirty years has been a friend sticking closer than a bro- 
ther — who closed the eyes of my wife, and was one of the 
first on whom my child's first opened — is about to retire 
from practice as a physician, and leave Woodbridge to 
be nearer his only child, now settled in Norwich. I 
could almost as soon have looked for Woodbridge church 
to have walked ofi* as he — the idea that he could live 
elsewhere, or that Woodbridge could go on without 
him, never once occurred to me. Well might old John- 
son say, 

" Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine, 

As on we toil from day to day, 
By sudden blast, or slow decline, 

Our social comforts drop away." 

I actually begin to draw comfort from the thought that 
we too must, ere long, drop away too. I seem daily to 
have less to cling to. 

G 2 



84 LETTERS. 



[On returning to Mr. Fulcher the proof of some verses for the 
Pocket Book.] 

8 mo, 9, 1844. 
Dear F., 

With the exception of one trifling error in 
the last piece, where the letter n has been put instead of 
u, I see not but that thy typographical bill of fare, now 
returned, is faultless. I hope they will not follow in 
thy pages seriatim as they stand on this portentous 
ballad-looking strip of paper, or thy readers will think 
there is no end of me. Sprinkled about, with other 
folk's rhymes filling up the " interstices between the in- 
tersections," as old Johnson said of network, they may 
pass. But I had no notion I had sent thee such a lot. 
I have had the curiosity to measure the length of my 
contribution, and find it is a good two feet; besides which, 
I sent thee " Glemham Hall" and some enigmatical 
rhyme. So I must have supplied thee with an honest 
yard of poetry. A fact, I think, worthy of being re- 
corded on my tomb -stone, if I should ever have one ; 
which, as I am a Quaker, is questionable. 

I told thee when I got that check of thee to help me 
to the Constable landscape, that I would work it out. 
If a whole yard of rhyme has not cleared off that score 
and left a trifle for a nest egg, I can only say, the more 
the shame and the greater the pity. But I was bent on 
making my last appearance in thy P. B. with some eclat, 
for I think it grows time for me to make my bow and 
retire from the vain and unprofitable vocation. No man 
can go on scribbling verse for ever, and not weary out 
his readers or himself. I. begin to feel somewhat of the 



TO MR. PULCHER. 85 

latter symptoms ; I think it very likely thy readers may 
have gotten the start of me. Any how, I think I have 
earned a furlough for a few years to come ; so I give 
thee fair notice, not to calculate on my appearing on 
parade when the drum beats again. I shall not feel 
the less cordial interest in thy pretty little annual, or 
recommend it the less heartily ; but I appeal to thee 
candidly and fearlessly, if three full apprenticeships 
ought not to entitle me to make my bow and leave the 
field honourably. Our intercourse, in a friendly way, 
will not, I hope, be in any degree affected by this — I 
should be very sorry indeed it were. Give my kindest 
regards to Mrs. F., and believe me, my old friend, 

Ever affectionately, 

B, B. 



TO MISS BETHAM. 



4mo, 7, 1845> 

L. IS gone to a concert, and, truth to tell, I 
was sorely tempted to go myself : but it was to be per- 
formed at the theatre — rather an un- Quakerish locality ; 

and, as J and A , though tempted like myself, 

seemed to think it would not do for them to go, I, who 
have less music in my ear, though I flatter myself I have 
some in my soul, could not with decent propriety be the 
only Quaker there. But I had a vast curiosity to go ; 
for it is not an ordinary concert, but performed on cer- 
tain pieces of rock, hewn out of Skiddaw, which, struck 
with some metal instrument, emit sounds of most exqui- 
site sweetness. We have heard of sermons from stones, 
but I never dreamt of going there for music ; but we 
live in a wondrous age for inventions of all sorts : so I, 
for one, by no means despair of seeing a silken purse 
made out of a sow's ear, in defiance of the proverbial 
wisdom of our ancestors. 



TO THE EEV. T. ^\ SALMON. 



8 mo, 9, 1840. 

I HAVE been for two days turning over to me a 
new leaf in the varied volume of human life ; having 
been subpoenaed as a witness to the Assizes, on a trivial 
cause, where my evidence was deemed requisite. So I 
ha^e spent two days in Court ; one in the Crown, or 
Criminal side, and one in the Nisi Prius Court. As I 
had never before seen any thing of the administration 
of justice, I could not but feel greatly interested in the 
proceedings, more especially in those of the Criminal 
Court. In the other, the only trial I heard was a tedious 
squabble about throwing up the lease of a house at 
Newmarket, in which there appeared to me a confused 
and contradictory mass of evidence on the part of near 
thirty witnesses, and a great waste of words on the part 
of four counsel, with a charge equally bewildering on 
the part of the learned judge— who honestly told the 
jury at the opening of it that he was very thankful the 
case was in their hands, and not in his, for ultimate 
decision. The case on which I went was not called, so 
for my comfort I have to go again to-morrow, and shall 
be thankful if I then get quit of it. I should be sorry to 
spend any great portion of my life in such an atmosphere ; 
physically and morally, it struck me as any thing but a 



88 LETTERS. 

healthy one. Still there is much that is very imposing 
in many of its forms and ceremonies, though blended, 
I thought, with some childish mummery, at least as far 
as respected the dress of the learned judge presiding in 
the Criminal Court ; the wig denoting the masculine, 
and the drapery below appearing to me any thing but 
manly. Yet, as the cortege drove up with a flourish of 
trumpets, and a line of javelin men, &c., &c., and my 
thoughts travelled to the cells of the jail behind, where, 
on these occasions, there must often be human beings 
waiting the result of a trial whose issue to them must 
be life or death, there was a thrilling feeling of solemnity 
excited by the scene altogether. It seemed to bring 
before me an inconceivably more aAvful and solemn tri- 
bunal, when the last trumpet shall sound, when the 
dead shall be raised, and the G-reat Assize, whose ver- 
dict shall be for Eternity, must be held on the count- 
less myriads who have existed through all the successive 
ages of time. 



TO MRS. SALMON. 

10 mo, 8, 1848. 
My dear Friend, 

The same kindness that induced thee to take 
us in, and to make so much of us during our pleasant 
Hopton sojourn, will, I am sure, impart some little in- 
terest to a few lines reporting our safe return home, and 



TO MRS. SALMON. 89 

our partial reinstatement in our wonted domicile ; I call 
it partial, inasmuch as one can hardly, all at once, fancy- 
one's self really and veritably at home. I still seem to 
myself, in thought, feeling, and spirit, more than half at 
Hopton ; as is very natural, for I thoroughly enjoyed 
my saunters and strolls there and thereabout, and can 
find or think of no walk half so pleasant as your cliffs, 
and Gorlestone pier. I miss too, more than a little, your 
agreeable family circle. Theo's lively chit-chat, Jane's 
comic comments, the smile of the younger girls, Frank's 
novel illustrations of Xatural History, and the evening 
reports of Willy, scant as they were, of what chanced 
to be going on at Yarmouth. On the whole, my dear 
friend, I quite think our coming to you as we did was a 
right thing ; and I am very sui^e it was a pleasant one, 
as it gave me an opportunity of seeing you all together 
once again, and renewing my acquaintance with some of 
the young folks respecting whom my memory stood in 
some need of being brushed up a little. We got outside 
at Lowestoft, and kept there till we reached Yoxford, 
when finding the inside entirely empty, I was not sorry 
once more to turn in, and found the change of rest to 
my back very agreeable, though the heat of the day 
rendered the loss of the fresher air at the top of the 
coach a very sensible privation. We arrived about four 
o'clock, and, after a reviving ablution, I felt none the 
worse for my journey, and decidedly the better for the 
few days' turn out. Libby Jones and E. F. G. dropt in 
about ^ve and took tea with us : she left us soon after, 
but Edward stayed till between seven and eight, and 
then started for a moon-light walk to Eoulge. 



TO JANE B- . 

2 mo, 15, 1847. 
Dear Jane, 

I AM too late to send thee a Valentine ; but 
we are both old enough to have done " wi' sic frivolities," 
as Grizel Oldbuck said — so that matters little. I send 
thee a copy of my little tribute to the memory of John 
Joseph Gurney. It 's a small matter ; but I have taken 
no small pains to make it as worthy of its subject as my 
scant leisure and declining ability would permit. In 
fact, I have bestowed more pains on this sheet and a half, 
than on a volume in my better days— a sad proof how 
near I draw to my dotage. But I found this poor tiny 
effort was expected of me, both by those within and 
those without our pale ; so I resolved not to shirk it, 
little as I felt equal to doing justice to such a theme. I 
have a notion it will be more kindly taken (as a general 
result) out than in; for some of our good Friends, who 
have no hearty liking to poetry or poets, will liken me 
to him of old, who put forth an unbidden — ergo, an 
unhallowed hand on the ark of old. From thee, dear 
Jane, I hope for a more charitable verdict : but I look 
for it with some anxiety, as thou hast much of the better 
part of poetry and Quakerism too in thee, and none can 
judge better of any attempt to combine the two without 
wrong to either. 

Thine affectionately, 

B. B. 



TO THE EEV. G. CEABBE. 



9 mo, 1, 1845. 

Many years ago I wrote some verses for a 
Child's Annual, to accompany a print of Doddiidge's 
mother teaching him Bible History from the Dutch 
tiles round their fire-place. I had clean forgotten both 
the print and my verses ; but some one has sent me a 
child's penny cotton handkerchief, on which I find a 
transcript of that identical print, and four of my stanzas 
printed under it. This handkerchief celebrity tickles 
me somewhat. Talk of fame ! is not this a fame which 
comes home, not only to " men^s business and bosoms^^^ 
but to children's noses, into the bargain ! Tom Church- 
yard calls it an indignity, an insult, looks scorny* at 
it ; and says he would cuff any urchin whom he caught 
blowing his nose on one of his sketches ! All this 
arises from his not knowing the complicated nature and 
texture of all worldly fame. 'Tis like the image the 
Babylonish king dreamt of with its golden head, baser 
metal lower down, and miry clay for the feet. It will 
not do to be fastidious ; you must take the idol as it is ; 
its gold sconce, if you can get it ; if not, take the clay 
feet, or one toe of another foot, and be thankful, and 

* A Suffblkcism. 



92 LETTERS. . 

make what you can of it. I write verse to be read ! it 
is a matter of comparative indifference to me whether 
I am read from a fine bound book, on a drawing-room 
table, or spelt over from a penny rag of a kerchief by 
the child of a peasant or a weaver. So, honour to the 
cotton printer, say I, whoever he be ; that bit of rag is 
my patent as a household poet. 



9 mo, 1, 1845. 
Mr DEAR Friend, 

Here goes for my second letter to thee this 
blessed day. If that a'nt being a letter-ary character 
I should like to know what is. Some folks make a 
great fuss about writing letters ; they pretend to say 
they can't write a letter ; they never know what to say ; 
yet they can talk^ an hour by the clock ! as if there 
were any more difficulty in talking -on paper than in 
noisier lingo. I never could understand the difference. 
Not that I should prefer epistolizing with a friend to 
having him tete-a-tete ; but no one can carry his friends 
about with him ; and when you are two miles apart you 
can no more hope to make a friend hear you, than if 
you were twenty or two hundred. Then talking on 
paper seems to me just as natural and easy as talking 
with your tongue ; and so it would be to every one^else, 
if they did not think it necessary to write fine letters, 
and say something smart or striking. This lies at the 
bottom of it. A man cares little, by comparison, what 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 93 

lie blurts out, viva voce, he thinks he may say a silly 
thing with impunity, it can't stand on record against 
him ; but when he gets a pen in his hand, he fancies, 
forsooth, he has a character to win, or to keep, for being 
eloquent, witty, or profound ; the natural result is, he 
writes a stupid, unnatural letter ; then says he hates 
letter-writing, and wonders how any body can like it. 
Women, who act more on impulse than we do, and 
make fewer metaphysical distinctions, and are less con- 
ceited, though they may have a pretty sprinkling of 
vanity, beat us out and out at letter- writing. A letter 
with a woman, if she be good for any thing, is an affair 
of the heart rather than the head, so they put more 
heart into their letters. 



9 mo, 5, 1845. 

I a:>i inclined to think I did not go far enough 
in my position that it is as easy to write as to talk. I 
have a great notion it is much easier, at least I find I 
can always give utterance to my own thoughts and feel- 
ings with more readiness, ease, and fluency, on paper 
than orally — and I cannot conceive why others should 
not. In company, conversation may be going on all 
round you, and your attention is apt to be divided and 
distracted — even in a tete-a-tete you must have two 
duties to perform, that of listener, as well as speaker, 
and in your desire not to engross more than your share of 



94 LETTERS. 

the talk, you are not unlikely to get less. In viva voce 
converse too, how often it happens that you cannot 
think of the very thing you most wanted to say. Many 
a time, after a long and moody discussion of a topic 
with a friend about a subject on which we took opposite 
views, I have called to mind, when too late to be of any 
use to me, some pithy argument which would have 
blown all his to atoms, and which I should have been 
almost sure to have had at my fingers' ends had I been 
quietly arguing the matter on paper in my own study. 



5 mo, 14, 1846. 

I RAN down on the Sabbath to thy father's old 
borough, over those glorious heaths, now decked in gor- 
geous golden livery, and rich in perfume as any pinery. 
I gulped down all the sea air I could in a long stroll 
on the beach, walking twice over from Slaughden quay 
to Vernon's, between the time of leaving a conventicle 
I went to and dinner ; besides one stroll on the ter- 
race ; and came back all the better, bodily to a certainty, 
and I hope none the worse, spiritually. I don't think I 
derived much edification from the service at the chapel, 
for the usual minister, a very decent sort of body, whom 
I had heard before, and went there partly to hear again, 
was out, and his place was supplied by an honest, well- 
meaning Wesleyan, an out-and-out teetotaller, who 
lugged in some queer statistics about alcohol and its ill 
effects, which I thought a little out of place. But I 



TO THE KEY. G. CRABBE. 95 

dare say tlie good man thought it his duty. One item 
in his long prayer, before the sermon, was novel to me ; 
it had an especial clause in it, " for all inmates of mad- 
houses, and Lunatic Asylums ! " To the best of my 
recollection I never before heard these poor unfortunates 
especially prayed for, in any Christian congregation, 
whether of the Establishment or of any other sect. 
You have, to be sure, a saving clause in one of yours, 
where you pray, if I remember aright, for "all sorts 
and conditions of men," wliich of course must include 
lunatics ; but the express reference was new to me ; 
and I felt no disposition to quarrel with it ; so if the 
good man put somewhat into his sermon I could have 
dispensed with, he brought also somewhat into his 
prayer that partly made amends for it. I think it pos- 
sible the worthy AYesleyan had come to the conclusion 
that nine-tenths of maniacs had been rendered such by 
strong drink; and therefore, as a teetotaller, he more 
especially felt bound to make compassionate mention of 
them ; if so, it was all the more to the credit of his 
Christian charity. 



5 mo, 30, 1846. 

Seventh day eveniiig. 
Dear C, 

If to-morrow be as fine as to-day has been, I 
may be tempted to stroll over to thine to dinner, as- 
suming thy dinner hour to be ^tq o'clock. I think by 



96 LETTERS. 

starting at three^ or perhaps two^ I may perform that 
feat of pedes trianism in the two, or at most three, hours. 
Do not exult over me on thy more Herculean powers 
of bone, sinew, or muscle ! recollect, 



" My eyes, my feet, begin to fail, 

My pace would scarce outstrip the snail.' 



Nor does it greatly, when I walk alone. For every 
stile I come to I am sure to find, or fancy, my nose is 
hungry, as well as my feet weary, and I can feed the 
one and rest the other best by sitting on the top of said 
stile. Once seated, I am often in no hurry to rise again — 
especially if I chance to have a book in my pocket. So 
that I am not sure that an hour, or even one and a half, 
is an imreasonable allowance to a mile, but with a 
friend I can occasionally go beyond this. 

Do not however be too sure that I shall be as reso- 
lute to-morrow as I feel inclined to be this evening. 
From the plotting of such an effort to its performance 
is a wide step, wider than I may fancy myself equal 
on the morrow to accomplish : but this may serve to 
notify that the thing was in my heart to be done ; and 
charitably give me credit for the goodness of my in- 
tention, rather than wrathfuUy vituperate me for fail- 
ing therein. Old Johnson once said of some friend of 
his — " I am not sure, sir, that he has seen the inside 
of a church these seven years ; but he never passes one, 
or goes through a churchyard, without taking off his 
hat ; and that shows good principles." In like manner, 
though I rarely walk to Bredfield, I often think of it, 
and wish myself there, and half resolve on walking 
there — all which shows my friendly regard for the 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 97 

place, and my love for those who dwell there. Make 
what t]iou canst of this. 

Thine ever, 

B. 



. 8 mo, 20, 1846, 
My DEAR Friend, 

I WAS going to begin •' My dear old Friend," 
for I have sometimes hard work to convince myself that 
our acquaintance is only of a few years' standing. There 
are natures so intrenched in all sorts of artificial out- 
works, each of which must be deliberately carried by 
siege ere you can get at what there is of nature in them, 
that you had need know them, in conventional phrase- 
ology, half or a quarter of a life^ ere you know aught about 
them. There are others whom, by a sort of instinctive 
free-masonry, you seem old friends with at once. The 
value of the acquisition depends not always on the time 
and labour it costs to make it — it is very often clean the 
contrary ; for it by no means unfrequently turns out, 
that what has cost you much time and pains to get at is 
worth little when obtained. I speak not of principles or 
truths, which you must find out for yourself, and this 
must often be a slow process ; but I am talking of those 
who profess them, and these, methinks, ought to be more 
promptly discernible and discoverable. Man would not 
be such a riddle to man, did not too many of us wear 
masks, and intrench ourselves in all sorts of conven- 

H 



98 LETTERS. 

tionalities and formalities. I do not think there is much 
of these in either of us ; and that I take it is the reason 
why we have got all the more readily at each other. 
Enough, however, of this long introduction, which I 
have blundered into without design or malice afore- 
thought. 

I am glad to hear of thy having had so pleasant a visit 
at Beccles — we must talk it over one of these days. The 
days are perceptibly shortening, and longer evenings 
will drive us to have fires — ^we will get over one for a 
Beccles palaver. I am well pleased, too, thou hast found 
that " Sun-dew," as thy heart was set upon it. " All 
have their hobbies." Flowers, wild or cultivated, do not 
chance to be mine ; but there is no reason why they 
should not be thine. So I repeat that I am well pleased 
thou shouldst have found thy coy pet. I saw nought 
of the Regatta ; but I saw as much of it as I have seen 
of any one of its precursors, for I never yet went over 
the threshold on any one of our Regatta days ; so, as 
none of the boats or yachts will sail by our bank win- 
dows,* I have never yet seen one of them — I mean on 
these day& of their especial display. 

As I have but imperfect sympathies with thee on 
wild-flowers, I cannot with any decent show of reason 
challenge thy cordial ones with me about pets of my 
own. But I have within a fortnight or so made a cu- 
rious discovery, which has interested me a good deal. 
My father was a Carlisle body, but left the "north 
countrie" ere I was born ; — my two elder sisters were 
born at Carlisle, but left it when mere children ; so their 
recollections never let me into the lig^ht of my progen- 
itors. My father died ere I wa& seven years old, hav- 
ing married a second wife near London, and I grew up 
* Which are some way inland. 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 99 

*as part of her family rather than my own. I have heard 
my elder sister say I was named after my grandfather, 
who was a manufacturer, I suspect on a small scale, at 
Carlisle. He carried a head on his shoulders, though, 
that manufacturing body ; for he invented a curious 
piece of machinery, long since forgotten, but a sort of 
wonder in its day ; for it won him a gold medal from 
some society in London. This is about all I ever knew 
of him until within about a fortnight, when I had a 
letter from a far-away cousin of mine at Carlisle, to con- 
gratulate me on my pension ; and to ask in return my 
condolence on having lost a brother. The writer then 
adds — " Our burial-place is at St. Cuthbert's church- 
yard, in this city (Carlisle), where also are interred your 
grandfather and grandmother, but the stone is much 
fallen into decay." I wrote directly to learn further 
particulars, and have got the following copy of the in- 
scription on the stone : 

ERECTED 
IN MEMORY OP BERNARD BARTON ; 

WHO DIED JAN. 6th, 1773; 

AGED 45 YEARS. 

ALSO 

OE MARY, HIS WIPE; WHO DIED 

MAY 20th, 1786; AGED 54 YEARS. 

ALSO 

OF EIVE OE THEIR CHILDREN ; 

VIZ. 
GEORGE, WILLIAM, ABRAHAM, 

HENRY, AND BERNARD ; 
AVHO DIED IN THEIR INFANCY. 



H 2 



100 LETTERS. 

Here 's a pretty chapter of one's family history to have 
been cut on stone some scores of years agone, and only 
now to have dawned on me. How that old mouldering 
tumble-down gravestone has peopled the past for me, 
and introduced me in fancy to a set of people I had not 
before dreamt of — " bone of my bone, and flesh of my 
flesh." The first thought which struck me on reading 
it was the comparative youthfulness of my grandparents. 
One naturally fancies one's grandfather and grandmo- 
ther to have been old folk. Why, I am already near a 
score years older than my venerable namesake ; and his 
widow, after surviving him thirteen years, was consi- 
derably my junior. My father, I think, died under forty, 
so I have no claim to longevity by right of descent. 
Then only to think of those five uncles of mine, or 
uncle-ets, rather, for they grew not up to mature uncle- 
hood. Had they all lived, wedded, and had families, 
what a Bartonian host we should or might have been. 
I have, as thou wilt conclude, sent to beg the old stone 
may be cleaned and renovated, and set upright again ; 
for it is vastly out of the perpendicular ; and but for my 
having thus accidentally heard of it, would probably 
have fallen down, and been carried off to serve as a 
door-step, or to assist in the pavement of some pig-stye, 
mayhap. 

*' To sucli yile uses may we come at last." 

My brother, to whom I wrote directly I heard of this 
humble memorial, feels as much interested as I do about 
it, and has given me carte blanche for the defraying any 
costs or charges such renovation and re-erection may 
involve. If the old stone will stand it, I mean to have 
cut on the reverse side— 



TO THE KEY. G. CRABBE. 101 

KEPAIRED AND RE-ERECTED 

1846, 

BY BERNARD AND JOHN BARTON, 
GRANDSONS OE THE EIRST-NAMED 
DECEASED. 

So much for my grand-dad and grandame ; and now, 
peace to their memories. But is it not curious that the 
knowledge of such a relic should have dawned on one 
scYcntj-three years after its erection, all along of Sir 
Robert's giving me a pension ? 

We purpose having a cold set-out — some folks call the 
thing a collation, others, a collection, throughout all the 
middle portion of this day week — in the discussion of 
which I hope thyself, and any, or all, thy family will as- 
sist, at whatever hour best suits you and the doings of 
the day.* Tell Master George, as a younger pillar of 
the Church, I rely on his presence, and let us know at 
what time we may hope for the pleasure of your com- 
pany. And now, having bothered and bored thee 
enough in all conscience, I take my leave. 

Thine affectionately, 

B. B. 



12 mo, 18, 1847. 

Dear C, 

Thou hast no notion what an effort it is to me 
to get out, or thou wouldst marvel not at my staying at 

* The consecrating a new church at Woodbridge. 



102 LETTERS. 

home. Did not Solomon say there is a time for going 
out, and a time for staying at home ? If he did not, he 
ought to have said it ; and his omission negatives not 
the fact. 

I yet hope to see Bredfield one day or the other ; but 
the when and the how are hid from me. My walking 
faculties are not what they used to be ; dJidi flying is too 
costly to have recourse to. Besides, my good old friend, 
I can't make out that it is any farther from Bredfield to 
Woodbridge than it is from here to thine ; yet I think 
I perform that pious pilgrimage three times to thy one. 
Think of that, and make allowance for my old age and 
growing infirmities. Thine, with love to all the younkers, 
hes and shes^ 

ever truly, 

Bernardus, 



My dear C, 

I THINK Lucy had a note from Caroline yester- 
day brought by your Mercury, to which she made her 
response ; but she did not know when she made it that 
the said Mercury was also the bearer of more substan- 
tial proofs of your friendly memory, until I reported 
having seen the unwonted spectacle of a hare, and a 
brace of birds, hanging up below. Our damsel, it seems, 
brought the note up-stairs, but said not a word of the 
notable postscript she had hung up in our tiny larder. 
On her mistress letting out at her for the omission, and 
telling her she had been the cause of her doing a very 
rude thing, at least not doing a civil and thankful one, 



TO THE REV. G. CRABBE. 103 

hj not acknowledging such an importation ; she said, I 
thought very adroitly, that she concluded the?/ were in 
the letter. The supposition was not an unnatural one ; 
at any rate, it will account for the tardiness of our ac- 
knowledgments, which I promised Lucy I would duly 
make this evening. 

I had a letter the other day from a first cousin of 
mine, of whom I had not heard for near fifty years, and 
whom I fancied to have been dead. She is about my 
o^vn age, I fear very poor, sickly, and infirm ; but 
picks up a living I hardly know how, though I doubt a 
scanty one. She sent me a little scrap of her verse, for 
she, too, is a dabbler in rhyme. To me there is some- 
thing really touching in her simple and brief record of 
her solitary state, and I have printed a few copies of it, 
giving it a title of my own making, as I received it 
without any ; and I hope by sending a copy here and 
there among some of our kinsfolk who are better off* 
than either she or myself, some trifling benefit may ac- 
crue to her. 

There is, to my fancy, a tone of genuine pathos in 
this little ditty which more than compensates for any 
defect in poetic beauty, and though in her verse she not 
unnaturally dwells on the darker side, the letter which 
came with it has no murmuring or repining whatever ; 
on the contrary, she expresses her gratitude at being 
able to earn her own living by her own exertions. 

I have wi'itten to my poor cousin, whom I well re- 
member nearly fifty years ago, as kind and encouraging 
a letter as I could indite, and I hope to render some 
little service, as to show by my sympathy that I am 
more proud than ashamed of our kinship. 

Thine truly, 

B. B- 



104 LETTERS. 



Many a time when I have been taking a soli- 
tary stroll by the sea-side, the sight of footsteps left 
when no one was in sight has set me thinking whose 
they might be. 



LETTEES 



FROM 



SOUTHEY, C. LAMB, &c. 



TO 



BERNARD BARTON. 



FEOM EOBEET SOUTHEY. 



Kesmck, Srd AiLgust, 1814. 
My dear Sir, 

I SHOULD have answered your letter imme- 
diatelj, if I had not been engaged with visitors when 
it arrived. In the course of my life I have more than 
once had reason to be thankful for having done things 
which would have been left undone, if the first impulse 
had been suffered to pass by — for, second thought in 
matters of feeling usually brings with it hesitation and 
demurral and doubt, from which the whole brood of 
sins of omission are derived. Your letter affected me. 
It seems to come from a good heart and a wounded one, 
and therefore I will venture to say what is upon my 
mind in spite of those obvious considerations which 
might prevent me. 

yp ^ ^ ^ ^ yp 

I shall be very glad to receive your little volume. If 
it be left either at Messrs. Longman's in Paternoster 
Kow, or at Mr. Murray's in Albemarle Street, it will 
find its way to me in a parcel. 

From what I have heard, I believe that the maga- 
zine has given you a portrait of me as little accurate as 
its information about my poem. I am a man of forty, 
younger in appearance and in habits, older in my feel- 
ings and frame of mind. I have been married nearly 



108 LETTERS. 

nineteen years, and have had seven children — two of 
whom (one being my first-born) are in a better world. 
The eldest now living is in her eleventh year. There 
is only one boy among them ; he is nearly eight, and 
has me for his schoolmaster and play-father, characters 
which we find it very easy to combine. You call me 
a fortunate being, and I am so, because I possess the 
will as well as the power of employing myself for the 
support of my family, and value riches exactly at what 
they are wortli. I have store of books, and pass my 
life among them, finding no enjoyment equal to that of 
accumulating knowledge. In worldly affairs the world 
must consider me as unfortunate, for I have been de- 
prived of a good property, which, by the common laws 
of inheritance, should have been mine ; and this through 
no fault, error, or action of my own. But my wishes 
are bounded by my wants, and I have nothing to desire 
but a continuance of the blessings which I enjoy. 

Enough of this. Believe me, with the best wishes 
for your welfare, 

Sincerely yours, 

Robert Southey. 



19th December, 1814. Keswick. 



My dear Sir, 



You will wonder at not having received my 
thanks for your Metrical Effusions ; but you will acquit 
me of all incivility when you hear that the book did 



FKOM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 109 

not reach me till this morning, and that I have now 
laid it down after a full perusal. It was overlooked at 
MuiTaj's, for I have received several parcels from him 
in the course of the last two months ; and when upon 
the receipt of yours I wrote to inquire for it, it was 
packed up in company with heavier matter, and tra- 
velled down by the slowest of all carriers. 

I have read your poems with much pleasure ; those 
with most which speak most of your own feelings. 
Have I not seen some of them in the Monthly Maga- 
zine? 

Wordsworth's residence and mine are fifteen miles 
asunder ; a sufficient distance to preclude any frequent 
interchange of visits. I have known him nearly 
twenty years, and, for about half that time, intimately. 
The strength and the character of his mind you see in 
the " Excursion," and his life does not belie his writ- 
ings ; for in every relation of life, and every point of 
view, he is a truly exemplary and admirable man. In 
conversation he is powerful beyond any of his contem- 
poraries ; and as a poet, I speak not from the partiality 
of friendship, nor because we have been so absurdly 
held up as both writing upon one concerted system of 
poetry, but with the most deliberate exercise of impar- 
tial judgment whereof I am capable, when I declare 
my full conviction that posterity will rank him with 
Milton. 

You wish the " Metrical Tales " were republished ; 
they are at this time in the press, incorporated with my 
other minor poems in three volumes. JVos hcec novimus 
esse nihil may serve as a motto for them all. 

Do not suffer my projected Quaker poem to interfere 
with your intentions respecting William Penn. There 
is not the slightest reason why it should. Of all great 



ilO LETTERS. 

reputations Penn's is that which has been most the 
effect of accident. The great action of his life was his 
turning Quaker: the conspicuous one, his behaviour 
upon his trial. In all that regards Pennsylvania, he 
has no other merit than that of having followed the 
principles. of the religious community to which he be- 
longed, when his property happened to be vested in 
colonial speculations. The true champion for religious 
liberty in America was Roger Williams, the first con- 
sistent advocate for it in that country, and perhaps in 
any one. I hold his memory in veneration. But be- 
cause I value religious liberty, I differ from you en- 
tirely concerning the Catholic question, and never 
would intrust any sect with political power whose doc- 
trines are inherently and necessarily intolerant. 

Believe me. 

Yours with sincere respect, 

Egbert Southey. 



Keswick, 'list January , 1820. 
Dear Sir, 

You propose a question to me which I can no 
more answer with any grounds for an opinion than if 
you were to ask me whether a lottery ticket should be 
drawn a blank or a prize ; or if a ship should make a 
prosperous voyage to the East Indies. If I recollect 
rightly, poor Scott, of Amwell, was disturbed in his 
last illness by some hard-hearted and sour-blooded 
bigots who wanted him to repent of his poetry as a sin. 



FRO^iI ROBERT SOUTHEY. Ill 

The Quakers are much altered since that time. I know 
one, a man deservedly respected by all who know him, 
(Charles Lloyd the elder, of Birmingham,) who has 
amused his old age by translating Horace and Homer ; 
and he is looked up to in the Society, and would not 
have printed the translations if he had thought it likely 
to give offence. 

Judging, however, from the spirit of the age as af- 
fecting your Society, like everything else, I should think 
they would be gratified by the appearance of a poet 
among them who confined himself within the limits of 
their general principles. They have been reproached 
with being the most illiterate sect that has ever arisen 
in the Christian world, and they ought to be thankful 
to any of their members who should assist in vindicating 
them from that opprobrium. There is nothing in their 
principles which should prevent them from giving you 
their sanction ; and I will even hope there are not many 
persons who will impute it to you as a sin if you should 
call some of the months by their heathen names.* I 
know of no other offence that you are in danger of com- 
mitting. They will not like virtuous feelings and re- 
ligious principles the worse for being conveyed in good 
verse. If poetry in itself were unlawful, the Bible must 
be a prohibited book. 



* One in the " British Friend," did impute this as a sin, twenty 
five years after Southey thus wrote. 



112 LETTERS. 



Keswick, 2bth Oct., 1820. 

My dear Sir, 

I MUST be very unreasonable were I to feel 
otherwise than gratified and obliged by a dedication * 
from one in whose poems there is so much to approve 
and admire. I thank you for this mark of kindness, 
and assure you that it is taken as it is meant. 

It has accidentally come to my knowledge that a 
brother of yours is married to the daughter of my wor- 
thy and respected friend, Mr. Woodruffe Smith. When 
you have an opportunity, it would oblige me if you 
would recall me to her remembrance, by assuring her 
that I have not forgotten the kindness which I so often 
experienced at her father's house. 

Perhaps you may consider it an interesting piece of 
literary news to be informed that, among my various 
employments, one is that of collecting and arranging 
materials for " The Life of George Fox, and the Rise 
and Progress of the Quakers." You know enough of my 
writings to understand that the consideration of whom 
I may please or displease would never make me turn 
aside from what I believed to be the right line. I 
shall write fairly and freely, in the spirit of Christian 
charity. My personal feelings are those of respect to- 
ward the Society, (such as it has been since its first ef- 
fervescence was spent,) and of good- will because of its 
members whom I have known and esteemed. Its his- 
tory I shall relate with scrupulous fidelity, and discuss 
its tenets with no unfavourable or unfriendly bias, nei- 

* Of the " Day m Autumn." 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 113 

ther dissembling my own opinion when it accords, 
nor when it differs from them. And perhaps I may 
expose myself to more censure from others on account 
of agreement, than from them because of the difference. 
But neither the one result nor the other will, in the 
slightest degree, influence me ; my object being to com- 
pose with all diligence and all possible impartiality an 
important portion not of ecclesiastical history alone, but 
of the history of human opinions. 

I will only add, that in this work I shall have the 
opportunity which I wish for, of bearing my testimony 
to the merit of your poems. 

Believe me, my dear Sir, 
Yours truly, 

Robert Southet. 



Keswick, 24th November, 1820. 
My dear Sir, 

I trust you will have imputed my silence 
about your " Day in Autumn " to the true cause — the 
delay to which such communications are liable in wait- 
ing for an opportunity of conveyance. It was not till 
this morning that I received it in a parcel, dated on the 
sixth of this month. The waggon travels slowly, and 
more time is lost in carriers' warehouses, when a parcel 
has to change conveyances twice or thrice on the road, 
than is required for the journey. I now thank you 
again for the dedication and the poem. It is a very 
pleasing production, in a fine strain of genuine feeling. 

I 



114 LETTERS. 

In reply to your questions concerning " The Life of 
George Fox," the plan of the work resembles that of 
" The Life of Wesley/' as nearly as possible. Very 
little progress has been made in the composition, but a 
good deal in collecting materials and digesting the order 
of their arrangement. The first chapters will contain a 
history of the religious, or irreligious dissensions in 
England, and their consequences, from the rise of the 
Lollards to the time when George Fox went forth. This 
will be such an historical sketch as that view of our 
ecclesiastical history in " The Life of Wesley ;" which 
is the most elaborate portion of the work. The last 
chapter will probably contain a view of the state of the 
Society at the time, and the modification and improve- 
ment which it has gradually and almost insensibly re- 
ceived. This part, whenever it is written, and all those 
parts wherein I may be in danger of forming erroneous 
inferences from an imperfect knowledge of the subject, 
I shall take care to show to some members of the Society 
before it is printed. The general spirit and tendency 
of the book will, I doubt not, be thought favourable by 
the Quakers as well as to them, and the more so by the 
judicious, because commendation comes with tenfold 
weight from one who does not dissemble his own differ- 
ence of opinion upon certain main points. 

Perhaps in the course of the work I may avail myself 
of your friendly offer ; and ask you some questions as 
they occur, and transmit certain parts for your inspec- 
tion. 

Farewell, my dear Sir, and believe me, 
Yours with much esteem, 

Egbert Southey. 



FROM ROBERT SOUTPIEY. 115 



Keswick, \^th Jan., 1821. 

My dear Sir, 

Though I am more than usually busy at this 
time, (otherwise your former letter would not have been 
unnoticed so long,) I feel myself bound to assure you 
without delay, that the i^aragraph which you have trans- 
mitted to me from I know not what magazine, has sur- 
prised me quite as much as it can have done you. There 
is not the slightest foundation for it, nor can I guess 
how such a notion should have arisen. So far is it from 
being true, that offers of assistance in the way of docu- 
ments have been made me by several of the Society, 
books have been sent me by some, and I have been re- 
ferred to others for any information or aid which I may 
happen to want, and they be able to afford. Mrs. Fry 
offered me access to some manuscript collections in the 
possession of some of her friends, and Thomas Wilkinson 
(of whom you cannot think with more respect than I do) 
asked me the other day to let him know what books I 
wanted, and he would endeavour to borrow them for me 
with good hopes of success. 

I can only account for the paragraph by supposing 
the editor, whoever he may be, may have heard that 
Longman had not been able to obtain for my use the 
first edition of G. Fox's Journal. I have found it since 
in the possession of an acquaintance in the country. 

Your poem is a very pleasing one. How came the 
prejudice against verse to arise among the Quakers, 
^vhen so many of the primitive Quakers wrote verses 

I 2 



116 LETTERS. 

themselves ? miserably bad ones they were, but still 
they were intended for poetry. 

Farewell, my dear Sir, and believe me. 
Yours with sincere respect, 

Robert Southey. 



[BERNARD BARTON TO SOUTHS Y.] 

Woodbridge, 2 mo, 18, 1821. 
My DEAR Friend, 

The information contained in thy last, respect- 
ing the facilities afforded thee in the prosecution of 
thy present undertaking, was, on every account, highly 
agreeable to me ; and I should have immediately re- 
turned my acknowledgments to thee for so promptly 
contradicting the report I had transmitted, had I not, 
besides being a good deal engaged myself, considered 
thy time much too valuable to be lightly intruded upon. 
After saying thus much, thou wilt, I hope, give me 
credit for having felt some hesitation, and indeed cate- 
chised myself pretty closely, prior to again addressing 
thee on a subject, seldom many days out of my thoughts. 
As thy proposed " Life of George Fox, and History of 
the Rise and Progress of our Society," is more talked of, 
and the knowledge of thy being engaged on such a work 
becomes more widely extended, it is very natural that 
those interested in the subject should have increased 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY. 117 

opportunities afforded tliem of hearing the opinions ex- 
pressed by others ; of comparing those opinions with 
their own ; and that they should, as a necessary conse- 
quence of this, feel desirous of now and then imparting 
to the historian the apprehensions, as well as hopes, ex- 
cited by his undertaking. I would not, believe me, put 
either thy time or patience in wanton and needless re- 
quisition, but on one topic I could wish, both as respects 
our feelings and our faith, to solicit thy serious, candid, 
and patient thought. 

A belief in the influences of the Holy Spirit, though 
entertained under various modifications, is, I think, no 
peculiar tenet of ours ; we may and do carry the prin- 
ciple further^ and rely on the perceptibility of its guid- 
ance, and internal consciousness of its teachings^ (if I 
may so express myself,) we may, I say, carry our belief 
on these matters beyond that of some of our fellow 
Christians : but I think most who profess the Christian 
name, with the exception perhaps of the Socinians, ad- 
mit the principle itself in the abstract ; and consider 
the influences of the Spirit as one of the highest privi- 
leges to which the gospel of Christ introduces those who 
humbly receive it. Not doubting but it is so regarded 
by thee, I cannot suppress the solicitude I feel, that in 
the discussion of a tenet so important, and which our 
peculiar acceptation of, belief in, and reliance upon, 
renders a marked feature of our faith ; I repeat, I can- 
not but be anxious that this topic, if discussed at all by 
thee, should be touched upon with that humility and 
reverence befitting one who himself admits the exist- 
ence of such a Spirit, who believes in its holy influence, 
but who probably differs from us in respect to that in- 
fluence being perceptible, and who may even look upon 
our belief in such perceptibility as mysticism, if not ac- 



118 LETTERS. 

tual delusion. Bear with me on this subject, my valued 
friend, for, believe me, I have no wish to dwell longer 
upon it than is essential to my purpose, and I most cer- 
tainly am not going now to enter into a detailed defence 
of our views of it ; but should those views appear to thee 
erroneous, allow me to express my earnest hope that 
thou wilt not, in attempting their refutation, at once 
endanger the foundation, because thou may est not quite 
approve of our superstructure. Do not let me, I en- 
treat, be misunderstood. I have no fear of thy discuss- 
ing our belief in a tone of ridicule, or even of levity ; of 
thy talking of our professing to be led by the Spirit, in 
the light and triiiing manner in which the fundamental 
article of our creed has been railed at by scoffers, bur- 
lesqued by dramatists, and jeered at by the vain un- 
thinking ribaldry of the lowest vulgar, with whom the 
taunt, now happily seldom heard, "Friend, doth the 
Spirit move thee ?" — has before now passed as a joke. 
On these points I can have no fears ; nor is it on any 
such ground that I feel the solicitude I now express. 
But it has occurred to me, that with a view to counter- 
act the tendency of a doctrine which may appear to thee 
as opening a door to fanaticism and enthusiasm, thou 
mayest quite unintentionally weaken what, I am fully 
persuaded, is viewed by thee as sacred ; and, without 
convincing us that we believe too much, mayest promote 
the more cold and sceptical views of those who believe 
too little. I certainly am not going to be so dictatorial 
as to tell our historian he is not to give his own serious 
and deliberately formed opinion on the tenets of a sect 
whose rise and progress he undertakes as his theme ; 
nor can I or do I expect that opinion to be in precise 
accordance with our own ; but the more immediate ob- 
ject of this address is to induce thee, if any inducement 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY. 119 

can be needful, to regard this point of religious doctrine, 
as one on which it becomes even the acutest and strong- 
est of human intellects to write with diffidence ; as one 
on which it is very possible to darken counsel by words 
without knowledge. It will ever remain, at least such is 
my belief, after philosophy and even theology have ex- 
hausted their powers in its discussion, a point of ab- 
stract faith, of deep feeling ; — to be humbly believed, 
to be meekly obeyed ; but not to be too curiously ana- 
lysed, or lightly argued upon. Those who reverently 
and devoutly believe its truth, and think they feel its 
efficacy, arc not very likely to abandon it ; and even 
those who think it fallacious, may perhaps wisely pause, 
before they attempt to prove its fallacy ; lest in demon- 
strating the impossibihty of the Holy Spirit being a 
perceptible guide, and its dictates not only remotely^ but 
immediately influential, they should, however undesign- 
edly, inflict pain on those who think differently ; lower, 
or at least lessen, a gift for which, according to their 
view of it, they supplicate publicly, and afford cause of 
triumph to those who avowedly deny its existence. 

Believing, as I do, that on thy susceptibility of feel- 
ing and correctness of judging respecting this one 'point 
much of the value of thy history, of its utility to others, 
as well as ourselves, must in great measure depend, I 
cannot apologize for the freedom I have taken in ex- 
pressing my opinions or feelings respecting it. With- 
out a capacity to appreciate this principle, as held by our 
early predecessors, it appears to me impossible to write 
their history fairly ; — with it, I have no apprehension 
of thy erring very materially. Thus thinking, it would 
be a great satisfaction to me, if I may ask such a favour, 
to know something of thy sentiments on this subject. 
Perfect coincidence with ours I do not expect ; but I 



120 LETTERS. 

should be sorry to find our friendly historian, for such I 
am persuaded thou art in intention, among those who 
can for a moment doubt that " there is a Spirit in man, 
and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth him under- 
standing !" 

Thine most affectionately, 

B. B. 



July 9, 1821. 
My dear Sir, 

I HAD not leisure to reply to your former let- 
ter when it arrived; a full reply to it, indeed, would 
require a dissertation rather than a letter. The influ- 
ence of the Holy Spirit is believed by all Christians, 
except the ultra Socinians ; the more pious Socinians 
would admit it, though under a different name. But the 
question what is, and what is not the effect of that in- 
fluence, is precisely asking where, in religious cases, 
reason ends, and insanity begins. In all communities 
of Christians there have been and are persons, who mis- 
take their own imaginations for inspiration ; and that 
this was done in some cases by the early Quakers, the 
present members of that Society would not deny. 

It is always my custom to have a work long in my 
thoughts before it is taken actually in hand ; and to col- 
lect materials and let the plan digest while my main oc- 
cupation is upon some other subject which has under- 
gone the same slow but necessary process. At present, 
I am printing " The History of the Peninsular War," a 



FROM ROBERT SOUTIIEY. 121 

great work, and it is probable that this is not the only 
work which I shall bring out, before " The Life of 
George Fox" becomes my immediate business. One 
great advantage arising form this practice is, that much 
in the mean time is collected in the course of other pur- 
suits which would not have been found by a direct 
search ; facts and observations of great importance fre- 
quently occurring where the most diligent investigator 
would never think of looking for them. The habit of 
noting and arranging such memoranda is acquired 
gradually ; and can hardly be learnt otherwise than by 
experience. 

So Buonaparte is now as dead as Csesar and Alexan- 
der ! I did not read the tidings of his death without a 
mournful feeling, which I am sure you also must have 
experienced, and which I think you are likely as well 
as able to express in verse. It is an event which will 
give birth to many poems, but I know no one so likely 
as yourself to touch the right strings. 

Farewell, and believe me. 

Yours very truly, 

Robert Southey. 



I do not remember whether I told you that Thomas 
Wilkinson, who is a collector of autographs, showed me 
a specimen of George Fox's hand- writing, and told me 
it bore a remarkable resemblance to Mirabeau's, than 
whom it would not be possible to find a man more un- 
like him in everything else. 



122 LETTERS. 



[On receiving from Mr. Barton a MS. specimen, and afterwards 
printed volume, of his '' Napoleon."] 



Keswick, 2%id August, 1821 . 

I LIKE your specimen in everything, except 
in its praise of Bertrand. A man does not deserve to 
be praised for constant worth whose merit consists in 
fidelity to a wicked master. If this is to be admitted 
as virtue, the devil may have his saints and martyrs. 
No man of worth could have adhered to Buonaparte 
after the murder of the Due D'Enghien, and after his 
conduct to Portugal and Spain. I say nothing of for- 
mer atrocities, because, before they were confessed by 
Buonaparte himself, they were denied, and might have 
been deemed doubtful ; but these crimes were public 
and notorious, and not to be extenuated, not to be for- 
gotten, not to be forgiven. 

I notice only one line in which the meaning is am- 
biguously expressed — " Thy power man's strength 
alone ;" — perhaps I might not have noticed it if the 
want of perspicuity did not arise in part from a licence 
which I detected myself in committing this morning — 
the use of alone instead of only. What you mean to 
say, is, that man^s only strength is thy power ; but as 
the words now stand they may convey an opposite 
meaning. 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 123 



18^A May, 1822. 

Thank you for your volume, which I received 
three hours ago — long enough to have read the princi- 
pal poem, and a large portion of the minor ones. They 
do you great credit. Nothing can be better than the 
descriptive and sentimental parts. In the reasoning 
ones, you sometimes appear to me to have fallen into 
Charles Lloyd's prosing vein. The verse indeed is 
better than his, but the matter sometimes, (though 
rarely,) like much of his later compositions, incapable 
of deriving any advantage from metre. The seventh 
stanza is the strongest example of this. On the other 
hand, this is well compensated by many rich passages 
and a frequent felicity of expression. Your poem, if it 
had suited your object so to have treated it, might have 
derived further interest from a view of Buonaparte's 
system of policy, the end at which he aimed, and the 
means which he used. I believe that no other indi- 
vidual ever occasioned so much wretchedness and evil 
as the direct consequence of his own will and pleasure. 
His partisans acknowledge that the attempted usurpa- 
tion of Spain was his sole act, and it was so palpably 
unjust, that the very generals who served him in it, 
condemn it without reserve. That war, in its progress 
and consequences, has not cost so little as a million of 
lives, and the account is far from being closed. 

You will not like Buonaparte the better perhaps, if 
I confess to you that, had it not been for him, I should 
perhaps have assented to your general principle con- 
cerning the unlawfulness of war, in its full extent. But 
when I saw that he was endeavouring to establish a 



124 LETTERS. 

military despotism throughout Europe, which, if not 
successfully withstood abroad, must at last have reached 
us on our own shores, I considered him as a Phihstine 
or a heathen, and went for a doctrine applicable to the 
times, to the books of Judges and of Maccabees. 
Nevertheless, I will fairly acknowledge that the doc- 
trine of non-resistance connected with non-obedience is 
the strongest point of Quakerism. And nothing can be 
said against it but that the time for the general accept- 
ance is not yet come. Would to God that it were 
nearer than it appears to be. 



Keswick, 2^th December, 1837. 

My dear Sir, 

I AM much obliged to you for your daughter's 
very elegant little volume,* and heartily wish it may 
prove both as successful as she can wish, and as useful 
as she intends it to be. 

The worst of all errors in religion, because in its 
consequences the most heart -hardening to individuals, 
and the most dangerous to society, is the belief that 
salvation is exclusively confined to a particular church 
or sect. Wherever that opinion prevails there is an 
end of Christian charity. I rejoice therefore that you 
and your daughter are both catholic Christians, and are 

* Gospel History. 



FROM ROBERT SOUTHEY. 125 

agreed that though one goes to church and the other to 
meeting, both may go to heaven, and both are on the 
road thither. May we all meet there. 

Yours very truly, and with many thanks and good 
wishes to your daughter, 

Robert Sol they. 



FROM CHAELES LAMB. 



December 1, 1824. 

Dear B. B., 

If Mr. Mitford will send me a full and cir- 
cumstantial description of his desired vases, I will 
transmit the same to a gentleman resident at Canton, 
whom I think I have interest enough in to take the 
proper care for their execution. But Mr. M. must 
have patience ; China is a great way off, farther per- 
haps than he thinks ; and his next year's roses must be 
content to wither in a wedgewood pot. He will please 
to say whether he should like his " arms " upon them, 
&c. I send herewith some patterns which suggest 
themselves to me at the first blush of the subject, but 
he will probably consult his own taste after all. 




The last pattern is obviously fitted for ranunculuses 
only. The two former may indifferently hold daisies, 
marjoram, sweet-williams, and that sort. My friend 
in Canton is Inspector of Teas, his name is Ball ; and 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 127 

I can think of no better tunnel. I shall expect Mr. 
M.'s decision. 

T. and H. finding their magazine goes off very heavily 
at 2s. 6d. are prudently going to raise their price an- 
other shilling ; and having already more authors than 
they want, intend to increase the number of them. If 
they set up against the "New Monthly," they must 
change their present hands. It is not tying the dead 
carcass of a Review to a half-dead Magazine will do 
their business. It is like G. D. multiplying his volumes 
to make 'em sell better. When he finds one will not go 
off, he publishes two ; two stick, he tries three ; three 
hang fire, he is confident that a fourth will have a better 
chance. 



July 2, 1825. 
My dear B. B., 

My nervous attack has so unfitted me, that I 
have not courage to sit down to a letter. My poor pit- 
tance in the " London " you will see is drawn from my 
sickness. Your book is very acceptable to me, because 
most of it is new to me ; but your book itself we can- 
not thank you for more sincerely than for the introduc- 
tion you favoured me with to A. K. Now, I cannot 
write 3frs. A. K. for the life of me. She is a very 

pleas but I won't write all we have said of her 

so often to ourselves, because I suspect you would read 
it to her. Only give my sister's and my kindest re- 
membrances to her, and how glad we are we can say 



128 LETTERS. 

that word. If ever she come to Southwark again, I 
count upon another Bridge walk with her. Tell her 
I got home time for a rubber ; but poor Tryphena will 
not understand that phrase of the worldling. 

I am hardly able to appreciate your volume now. 
But I liked the Dedication much, and the apology for 
your bald burying-grounds. To Shelley, but that is 
not new. To the young Vesper-singer, Great Beal- 
ings, Playford, and what not ? 

If there be a cavil^ it is that the topics of religious 
consolation, however beautiful, are repeated till a sort 
of triteness attends them. Do children die so often, 
and so good, in your parts ? The topic taken from the 
consideration that they are snatched away from possible 
vanities^ seems hardly sound ; for to an omniscient eye 
their conditional failings must be one with their actual ; 
but I am too unwell for Theology — such as I am, 

I am yours and A. K.'s truly, 

C. Lamb. 



August 10, 1825. 

Dear B. B., 

You must excuse my not writing before, 
when I tell you we are on a visit to Enfield, where I 
do not feel it natural to sit down to a letter. It is at 
all times an exertion. I had rather talk with you, and 
A. K., quietly at Colebrooke Lodge, over the matter of 
your last. You mistake me when you express misgiv- 
ings about my relishing a series of Scriptural poems. 
I wrote confusedly — what I meant to say was, that one 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 129 

or two consolatory poems on deaths would have had a 
more condensed effect than many. Scriptural devotional 
topics admit of infinite variety. So far from poetry 
tiring me because religious, I can read, and I say it se- 
riously, the homely old version of the Psalms in our 
Prayer Books for an hour or two together sometimes, 
without sense of weariness. 

I did not express myself clearly about what I think a 
false topic insisted on so frequently in consolatory ad- 
dresses on the death of infants. I know something like 
it is in Scripture, but I think humanly spoken. It is a 
natural thought, a sweet fallacy to the survivors — but 
still a fallacy. 



'•' 1826." 
Dear B. B., 

I don't know why I have delayed so long 
^^Ti-iting. 'Twas a fault. The under-current of excuse 
to my mind was, that I had heard of the vessel in which 
Mitford's jars were to come; that it had been obliged 
to put in to Batavia to refit, (which accounts for its de- 
lay,) but was daily expected. Days are past, and it 
comes not, and the mermaids may be drinking their tea 
out of his china for aught I know ; but let's hope not. 
In the mean time, I have paid £28, &c. for the freight 
and prime cost. But do not mention it. I was enabled 
to do it by a receipt of £30 from Colburn, with whom, 
however, I have done. I should else have run short, 
for I just make ends meet. We will await the arrival 

K 



130 LETTEKS. 

of the trinkets, and to ascertain their full expense, and 
then bring in the bill. 

1 am very sorrj you and yours have any plagues about 
dross matters. I have been sadly puzzled at the defal- 
cation of more than one-third of my income, out of which 
when entire I saved nothing. But cropping off wine, 
old books, &c., &c., in short, all that can be called pocket- 
money, I hope to be able to go on at the Cottage. 

Colburn has something of mine in last month, which 
he has had in hand these seventh months, and had lost, 
or couldn't find room for : I was used to different treat- 
ment in the " London," and have forsworn periodicals. 

I am going through a course of reading at the Museum 
— the Garrick plays, out of part of which I formed my 
specimens ; I have two thousand to go through, and in 
a few weeks have despatched the tithe of 'em. It is a sort 
of office to me — hours, ten to four, the same. It does 
me good ; man must have regular occupation that has 
been used to it. So A. K. keeps a school ! She teaches 
nothing wrong, I'll answer for't. I have a Dutch print 
of a schoolmistress ; little old-fashioned Flerainglings, 
with only one face among them. She, a princess of a 
schoolmistress, wielding a rod for form more than use : 
the scene an old monastic chapel, with a Madonna over 
her head, looking just as serious, as thoughtful, as pure, 
as gentle, as herself. 'Tis a type of thy friend. 

Will you pardon my neglect ? Mind, again I say, not 
to show this to M. ; let me wait a little longer, to know 
the event of his luxuries. Heaven send him his jars 
uncrack'd, and me my . 

Yours with kindest wishes to your daughter and 
friend, in which Maiy joins, 

C. L. 



FR03I CHARLES LAMB. 131 



Dear B. B., 

The " Busy Bee^'' as Hood, after Dr. Watts, 
apostrophizes thee ; and well dost thou deserve it for thy 
labours in the Muse's gardens, wandering over parterres 
of Think-on-mes and Forget-me-nots, to a total impos- 
sibility of forgetting thee : — thy letter was acceptable, 
thy scruples may be dismissed, thou art rectus in curia^ 
— not a word more to be said, verhum sapienti, and so 
forth, the matter is decided with a white stone, (classi- 
cally, mark me,) and the apparitions vanished that 
haunted me, — only the cramp, Caliban's distemper, 
clawing me in the calvish part of my nature, making me 
ever and anon roar buUishly, squeak cowardishly, and 
limp crippleishly. Do I write Quakerly and simply ? 
'Tis my most Master Mathews-like intention to do it. 
See Ben Johnson. — I think you told me your acquaint- 
ance with the drama was confined to Shakspeare and Miss 
Bailly — some read only Milton and Croly. The gap is 
from an ananas to a turnip. I have fighting in my head 
the plots, characters, situations, and sentiments of four 
hundred old plays, (bran new to me, ) which I have been 
digesting at the Museum, and my appetite sharpens to 
twice as many more, which I mean to course over this 
winter. I can scarce avoid dialogue fashion in this 
letter. I soliloquize my meditations, and habitually 
speak dramatic blank verse without meaning it. Do 
you see Mitford ? he will tell you something of my la 
hours. Tell him I am sorry to have missed seeing him, 
to have talked over those old treasures. I am still 

K 2 



132 ' LETTERS. 

more sorry for liis missing pots.* But I shall be sure 
of the earliest intelligence of the lost tribes. His '^ Sa- 
cred Specimens " are a thankful addition to my shelves. 
Marry, I could wish he had been more careful of corri- 
genda — I have discovered certain which have slipt in 
his errata. I put 'em in the next page, as perhaps thou 
canst transmit them to him. For what purpose, but to 
grieve him ? (which yet I should be sorry to do ;) but 
then it shows my learning, and the excuse is compli- 
mentary, as it implies their correction in a future edition. 
His own things in the book are magniiSicent, and as an 
old Christ's Hospitaller, I was particularly refreshed 
with his eulogy of our Edward. Many of the choice 
excerpta were new to me. Old Christmas is a coming, 
to the confusion of Puritans, Muggletonians, Anabap- 
tists, Quakers, and that unwassailing crew. He cometh 
not with his wonted gait ; he is shrunk nine inches in 
the girth, but is yet a lusty fellow. Hood's book is 
mighty clever, and went off six hundred copies the first 
day. Sion's songs do not disperse so quickly. The 
next leaf is for Rev. J. M.f In this, 

Adieu. 
Thine briefly in a tall friendship, 

C. Lamb. 



* The China vases before mentioned. 

t Containing corrigenda for the " Sacred Specimens.'* 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 133 



'' Jime Wth, 1827." 

Martin's Belshazzar (the picture) I have 
seen ; its architectural effect is stupendous, but the hu- 
man figures, the squalling contorted little antics that are 
playing at being frightened, like children at a sham 
ghost who half know it to be a mask, are detestable. 
Then the letters are nothing more than a transparency 
lighted up, such as a lord might order to be lit up on a 
sudden at a Christmas gambol, to scare the ladies. The 
type is as plain as Baskeryil's ; they should have been 
dim, full of mystery — letters to the mind rather than the 
eye. Rembrandt has painted a Belshazzar and a cour- 
tier or two, (taking a part of the banquet for the whole,) 
not fribbled out a mob of fine folks. Then everything 
is so distinct, to the very necklaces ; and that foolish 
little prophet — what one point is there of interest ? The 
ideal of such a subject is that you, the spectator, should 
see nothing but what at the time you would have seen 
— the hand^ and the king ; not to be at leisure to make 
tailor-remarks on the dresses, or. Doctor Kitchener -like, 
to examine the good things at table. 

Just such a confused piece is his Joshua — frittered into 
a thousand fragments, little armies here, little armies 
there ; — you should only see the sun and Joshua ; if I 
remember, he has not left out that luminary entirely, 
but for Joshua, I was ten minutes a finding him. 

Still he is showy in all that is not the human figure 
or the preternatural interest : but the first are below a 
drawing -school girl's attainment, and the last is a phan- 
tasmagoric trick — " Now you shall see what you shall 
see : — dare is Belshazzar, and dare is Daniel." 



134 LETTERS. 



My dear B. B., 

You will understand my silence wlien I tell 
you that my sister, on the very eve of entering into a 
new house we have taken at Enfield, was surprised with 
an attack of one of her sad long illnesses, which deprive 
me of her society, though not of her domestication, for 
eight or nine weeks together. I see her, but it does her 
no good. But for this, we have the snuggest, most 
comfortable house, with everything most compact and 
desirable. Colebrook is a wilderness : the books, prints, 
&c. are come here, and the New River came down with 
us. The familiar prints, the bust, the Milton, seem 
scarce to have changed their rooms. One of her last 
observations was, " How frightfully like this room is to 
our room at Islington!" — oar up-stairs, she meant. 
How I hope you will come, some better day, and judge 
of it ! We have lived quiet here for four months, and 
I will answer for the comfort of it enduring. 

On emptying my book-shelves, I found a Ulysses,* 
which I will send to A. K. when I go to town, for her 
acceptance— unless the book be out of print. One likes 
to have one copy of everything one does. I neglected 
to keep one of "Poetry for Children," the joint pro- 
duction of Mary and me, and it is not to be had for love 
or money. 

* Of Mr. Lamb's version of Chapman's Odyssey. 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 135 



Dear B. B., 

We are pretty well and comfortable, and I 
take a first opportunity of sending the " Adventures of 
Ulysses/' hoping that among us — Homer, Chapman, 
and Co., we shall afford you some pleasure. I fear it 
is out of print ; if not, A. K. will accept it, with wishes 
it were bigger ; if another copy is not to be had, it re- 
verts to me and my heirs for ever. With it I send a 
trumpery book ; to which, without my knowledge, the 
editor of the "Bijoux" has contributed Lucy's verses ; 
I am ashamed to ask her acceptance of the trash ac- 
companying it. Adieu to Albums for a great while, I 
said, when I came here ; and had not been fixed two 
days, but my landlord's daughter (not at the pot-house) 
requested me to write in her female friend's, and in her 
own. All over the Leeward Islands, in Newfoundland, 
and the Back Settlements, I understand there is no 
other reading. They haunt me. I die of Albophobia ! 



"1827." 
My dear B. B., 

A gentleman I never saw before brought me 
your welcome present.* Imagine a scraping, fiddling, 
fidgetting, petit-maitre of a dancing school advancing 
into my parlour, with a coupee and a sidelong bow, and 
presenting the book as if he had been handing a glass 



^ tc 



The Widow's Tale," &c. 



136 LETTERS. 

of lemonade to a young Miss — imagine this and con- 
trast it with the serious nature of the book presented. 
Then task your imagination, reversing this picture, to 
conceive of quite an opposite messenger, a lean, straight- 
locked, whej-faced Methodist, for such was he in reality 
who brought it, the genius (it seems) of the " Wesleyan 
Magazine." Certes, friend B., thy " Widow's Tale " is 
too horrible, spite of the lenitives of religion, to embody 
in verse ; I hold prose to be the proper exposition of 
such atrocities ! No offence, but it is a cordial that 
makes the heart sick. Still, thy skill in compounding 
it I do not deny. I turn to what gave me less mingled 
pleasure. I find marked with pencil these pages in thy 
pretty book, and fear I have been penurious. 
Page 52, 53, capital. 

59, sixth stanza, exquisite simile. 
61, eleventh stanza, equally good. 

108, third stanza, I long to see Van Balen. 

Ill, a downright good sonnet. Dixi. 

153, lines at bottom.* 



* Pages 52, 53, refer to the poem *' Which Things are a 
Shadow." 59, 61 , to the sixth and eleventh stanzas of " A Grand- 
sire's Tale." The " downright good sonnet," is " To a Grand- 
mother." All of these are included in this Selection. The " third 
stanza " at 108, that made Lamb long to see Van Balen, was from 
a little poem describing a picture by that artist that represented 
some angel children leading up a lamb to the infant Saviour in 
his mother's lap : 

No — rather like that beauteous boy, 

Who turns round silently to stay 
Those infant angels m their joy, 

As if too loud their gentle play, — 
Like him I pause Avith doubtful mien, 
As loth to break on such a scene. 



FROM CHARLES L43IB. 137 

So you see, I read, hear, and mark, if I don't learn. In 
short, this little volume is no discredit to any of your 
former, and betrays none of the senility you fear about. 
Apropos of Yan Balen, an artist who painted me 
lately had painted a blackamoor praying ; and not fill- 
ing his canvass, stuffed in his little girl aside of blacky, 
gaping at him unmeaningly ; and then did not know 
what to call it. Now for a picture to be promoted to 
the exhibition (Suffolk- street) as historical, a subject is 
requisite. What does me I, but christen it the " Young 
Catechist," and furbished it with dialogue following, 
which dubb'd it an historical painting. Xothing to a 
friend at need. 

While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, 
Painter, who is she that stayeth 
By, with skin of whitest lustre ; 
Sunny locks, a shining cluster ; 
Saint-like seeming to direct him 
To the power that must protect him ? 
Is she of the heav'n-born Three, 
Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity ? 
Or some cherub ? 

They you mention 
Far transcend my weak invention. 
'Tis a simple Christian child, 
Missionar}^ young and mild, 
From her store of Scriptural knowledge, 
(Bible-taught without a college,) 



The " 153, lines at bottom," are these : — 

Though even in the yet unfolded rose 

The worm may lurk, and sin blight blooming youth ; 

The light born with us long so brightly glows, 
That childhood's first deceits seem almost truth 
To life's cold after-lie, selfish and void of truth. 



138 LETTERS. 

• 

Which by reading she could gather, 
Teaches him to say Our Father 
To the common Parent, who 
Colour not respects nor hue : 
White and black in Him have part 
Who looks not on the skin, but heart. 

When I had done it, the artist (who had clapt in Miss 
merely as a iill-spaee) swore I expressed his full mean- 
ing, and the damosel bridled up into a Missionary's 
vanity. I like verses to explain pictures; seldom pic- 
tures to illustrate poems. Your wood-cut is a rueful 
signum mortis. By the bye, is the widow likely to 
marry again? 

I am giving the fruit of my Old Play reading at the 
Museum, to Hone, who sets forth a portion weekly in 
the " Table Book." Do you see it ? How is Mitford ? 

I'll just hint that " the pitcher," " the cord," and " the 
bowl," are a little too often repeated {passim) in your 
book, and that in page 17, last line but four, him is put 
for he ; but the poor widow I take it had small leisure 
for grammatical niceties. Don't you see there's he^ my- 
self^ and him ; why not both him ? * Likewise imper- 
viously is cruelly spelt imperiously. These are trifles, 
and I honestly like your book, and you for giving it, 
though I really am ashamed of so many presents. 

I can think of no news, therefore I will end with mine 
and Mary's kindest remembrances to you and yours. 

C. L. 

* Another and another sank ; and now 

But three of all our crew were left behind ; 

He unto whom my lip had pledged a vow 
Which closer seem'd in this sad hour to bind, 

Myself, and him, to whom was erst assign' d 
Our ship's command — 



FROM CHARLES LAMB. 139 



"3/arcA25, 1829." 



I HAVE just come from Town, where I have 
been to get mj bit of quarterly pension. And have 
brought home, from stalls in Barbican, the old " Pil- 
grim's Progress " with the prints, '• Vanity Fau%" &c., 
now scarce. Four shillings. Cheap. And also one 
of whom I have oft heard and had dreams, but never 
saw in the flesh — that is, in sheepskin — " The whole 
theologic works of 

Thomas Aquinas ! " 
My arms ached with lugging it a mile to the stage, but 
the burden was a pleasure, such as old Anchises was to 
the shoulders of -^neas ; or the Lady to the Lover in 
the old romance, who having to carry her to the top of 
a high mountain — the price of obtaining her — clambered 
with her to the top and fell dead with fatigue. 

O the glorious old schoolmen ! 
There must be something in him. Such great names 
imply greatness. Who hath seen Michel Angelo's 
things — of us that never pilgrimaged to Eome — and yet 
which of us disbelieves his greatness. How I will re- 
vel in his cobwebs and subtleties till my brain spins ! 

N. B. I have writ in the Old Hamlet* — offer it to 
Mitford in my name, if he have not seen it. 'Tis woe- 
fully below our editions of it. But keep it, if you like. 

I do not mean this to go for a letter, only to apprize 
you that the parcel is booked for you this 2oth March, 
1829, from the Four Swans, Bishopsgate. 

With both our loves to Lucy and A. K., 
Yours ever, 

C. L. 
* The reprint of the first quarto, in ^^'liich C. L. ^vrote liis name. 



1 40 LETTERS. 

''August SO, 1830." 

Dear B. B., 

My address is 34, Southampton Buildings, 
Holborn. For God's sake do not let me be pestered 
with Annuals. They are all rogues who edit them, 
and something else who write in them. I^m still 
alone, and very much out of sorts, and cannot spur up 
my mind to writing. The sight of one of those Year 
Books makes me sick. I get nothing by any of 'em, 
not even a copy. 

Thank you for your warm interest about my little 
volume,* for the critics on which I care the five hun- 
dred thousandth part of the tithe of a half farthing. 

I am too old a militant for that. How noble, though, 
in R. S. to come forward for an old friend, who had 
treated him so unworthily ! 

Moxon has a shop without customers, and I a book 
without readers. But what a clamour against a poor 
collection of Album verses, as if we had put forth an 
Epic. 

I cannot scribble a long letter — I am, when not at 
foot (?) very desolate, and take no interest in anything, 
scarce hate anything, but annuals. I am in an interreg- 
num of thought and feeling. 

What a beautiful autumn morning this is, if it was 
but with me as in times past, when the candle of the 
Lord shined round me. 

I cannot even muster enthusiasm to admire the 
French heroism. 



* '* Album Verses," published by Mr. Moxon in 1830 ; sneered 
at by some of the Reviewers, and vindicated in a Sonnet by 
Southey, inserted in " The Times " newspaper. 



^FKOM CHARLES LAMB. 141 

In better times I hope we may some day meet, and 
discuss an old poem or two. 

But if you'd have me not sick, 

No more of Annuals. 

C. L. Ex-Elia. 
Love to Lucy, and A. K., always. 



''April, 1831." 
YlR BONE ! 

Eecepi literas tuas amicissimas, et in mentem 
venit responsuro mihi, vel raro, vel nunquam, inter nos 
intercedisse Latinam linguam, organum rescribendi, lo- 
quendive. Ej)istol8e tuse, Plinianis elegantiis (supra 
quod Tremulo deceat) repertae, tarn a verbis Plinianis 
adeo abhorrent, ut ne vocem quamquam (Romanam 
scilicet) habere videaris, quam " ad canem," ut aiunt, 
'^rejectare possis." — Forsan desuetudo Latinissandi ad 
vernaculam linguam usitandam, plusquam opus sit, 
coegit. Per adagia quadam nota, et in ore omnium 
pervulgata, ad Latinitatis perdit^ recuperation em re- 
vocare te institui. 

Felis in abaco est, et aegre videt. 
Omne quod splendet nequaquam aurum putes. ' 
Imponas equo mendicum, equitabit idem ad diabolum. 
Fur commode a fure prenditur. 

O Maria, Maria, valde coxtrarta, quomodo crescit 
hortulus tuus ? 



142 LETTERS. 

Nunc majora canamus. 

Thomas, ThomaSj de Islington, uxorem duxit die nu ^ 
peril Dominica. Reduxit domum postera. Succedenti 
baculum emit. Postridie ferit illam. ^grescit ilia 
subsequenti. Proxima (nempe Veneris) est mortua. 
Plurimum gestiit Thomas, quod appropinquanti sab- 
bato efferenda sit. 

Horner quidam Johannulus in angulo sedebat, arto- 
creas quasdam deglutiens. Inseruit poUices, pruna 
manu evellens, et magna voce exclamavit, "Dii boni, 
quam bonus puer fio ! " 

Diddle-diddle-dumkins ! mens unicus filius Johannes 
cubitum ivit, integris braccis, caligl una tantum indu- 
tus — Diddle- diddle, &c. Da Capo, 

Hie adsum saltans Joannula. Cum nemo adsit mihi, 
semper resto sola. 

In his nugis caram diem consumo, dum invigilo vale- 
tudini carioris nostras Emm^, quae apud nos jamdudum 
aegrotat. Salvere vos jubet mecum Maria mea, ipsa 



integra valetudine. 



Elia. 



Ab agro Enfeldiense datum, Aprilis nescio quibus 
Calendis — 

Davus sum, non calendarius. 
P. S. Perdita in toto est Billa Reformatura. 



FRAGMENTS FEOM C. LLOYD'S LETTEES. 



My son is gone in spite of my haste ; there- 
fore, like the good preachers among Friends, who. 
when their subject has carried them from themselyes. 
and they have got into a tone, often stop, and, suddenly 
recollecting themselves, drop their tone — so will I 
pause in my celerity and bad writing, which, to the 
eye, is worse than a tone to the ear. Indeed, so con- 
vinced am I that a tone is the natural consequence 
of impassioned expression, that, provided they do not 
absolutely whine, I like the chaunt of the Friends far 
better than a more cold and intellectual modulation of 
the voice. Farewell, my dear Friend. 



I HAVE not read your last poems * so much as 
I could wish. I was visited, while in London, with a 
very dreadful illness, and since my return it has been 
borrowed till I am quite impatient at its absence ; and I 
called the other day on one of the borrowers to solicit its 

* Napoleon, &c. 



144 FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS. 

return. I should like to converse with you about it viva 
voce, I must say I do not like moral sentiments about 
conquerors. I could write, think, and read religiously 
about them ; but while men must have passions, and while 
I think ambition one of the noblest, (mind, humanly^ and 
not religioitsly speaking,) I must say that I think the 
common sentiments against war, aggrandizement, &c., 
fall rather flat. My taste would rather lead me to pane- 
g yrize them imaginatively, and then to condemn them re- 
ligiously. I am rather of the opinion of an accomplished 
female who once told me " she liked goodifat passions." 



I HAD a very ample testimony from C. Lamb 
to the character of my last little volume. I will tran- 
scribe to you what he says, as it is but a note, and his 
manner is always so original, that I am sure the intro- 
duction of the merest trifle from his pen will well com- 
pensate for the absence of anything of mine : — " Your 
lines are not to be understood reading on one leg. They 
are sinuous^^ and to be won with wrestling. I assure 
you in sincerity that nothing you have done has given 
me greater satisfaction. Your obscurity, when you are 
dark, which is seldom, is that of too much meaning, not 
the painful obscurity which no toil of the reader can 
dissipate ; not the dead vacuum and floundering place 
in which imagination finds no footing ; it is not the dim- 
ness of positive darkness, but of distance ; and he that 
reads and not discerns must get a better pair of specta- 

* So in orig. 



FROM C. LLOYD. 145 

cles. I admire every piece in the collection ; I cannot 
saj the first is best ; when I do so, the last read rises 
up in judgment. To your Mother — to your Sister— is 
Mary dead?— they are all weighty with thought and 
tender with sentiment. Your poetry is like no other : 
— those cursed Dryads and Pagan trumperies of mo- 
dern verse have put me out of conceit of the very 
name poetry. Your verses are as good and as whole- 
some as prose ; and I have made a sad blunder if I do 
not leave you with an impression that your present is 
rarely valued." 



nth Nov., 1822. 

It seems to me that it is impossible that a per- 
son should long together write with any interest, if no 
one is interested in his compositions. For myself, I 
frankly avow I never do wi'ite from any distant consider- 
ation of fame, or of establishing a literary character, but 
solely when the difficulty would rather be not to write 
than to write. In this respect I am literally a Quaker 
poet. But then, as I grow older, and as the fervours of 
my imagination abate, I doubt how far fits of inspira- 
tion would come on, if no one noticed their fruits. I as- 
sociate with no one here out of my own family ; though 
I am rich enough to live without a profession, I am not to 
indulge in any love of variety, in travelling, &c., and I 
really feel that my authorship is the sole source of in- 
terest out of myself, or of sympathies with my feUow 
creatures, that remains to me. If I were not to write a 
word more, I have matter enough by me to make eight 

L 



146 FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS. 

or ten volumes. What interest could there be in add- 
ing to this dead stock, if from time to time some of it 
were not embarked on a voyage of adventure? At 
least, so I feel ; and feeling so, and finding here no one, 
not one, not even my wife, who seems to comprehend 
this feeling, (for to say the truth of her, she has not that 
average leaven of vanity which, without authorizing 
you to call a character vain, makes her to sympathize 
with the cravings after sympathy in others,) I was the 
more gratified that you so completely seemed to enter 
into, and to understand, my case. 



Introductory Sonnet to the Supreme Being, 
which I had some intention of placing before the poems 
which I am noAV publishing, but which I have omitted 
— ^omitted, because I thought that the theme of this 
Sonnet arrogated too much for my poems. I have now 
simply dedicated them in a Sonnet to my Father. 

O Thou, who when thou mad'st the heart of man, 

Implanted'st there, as paramount to all, 
Immortal Conscience ; do Thou deign to scan 

With favouring eye these lays, which would recall 
Man to his due allegiance. — Nothing can 

Thrive without Thee ; hence, at Thy throne I fall, 
And Thee implore to go forth in the van 

Of these my numbers, Lord of great and small ! 
Bless Thou these lays, and, with a reverent voice, 

Next to Thyself would I my father place, 



FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT. 147 

Close at thy threshold ; true to his youth's choice, 
His deeds with conscience ever have kept pace. 

Great Father, bid my earthly sire rejoice, 

A white-robed Christian in thv safe embrace.* 



> r\ r\ r^r\ /Ay-\yv rv 



[The following little note from Sir Walter Scott refers to some 
curious old MS. relating to Scottish histor}-, lent to Sir Walter 
for his perusal, through Mr. Barton.] 



jSIy dear Sir, 

I HAYE been lazy in sending you the two tran- 
scripts. In calling back the days of my youth, I was 
surprised into confessing what I might have as well kept 
to myself, that I had been guilty of sending persons a 
bat -hunting to see the ruins of Melrose by moonlight, 
which I never saw myself. The fact is rather curious, 
for as I have often slept nights at Melrose, (when I did 
not reside so near the place,) it is singular that I have 
not seen it by moonlight on some chance occasion. How- 
ever, it so happens that I never did, and must (unless I 
get cold by going on purpose) be contented with sup- 
posing that these ruins look very like other Gothic build- 
ings which I have seen by the wan light of the moon. 

I was never more rejoiced in my life than by the safe 



* The Editor cannot hear that this noble Sonnet is to be found 
in any of C. Lloyd's published volumes. It is surely too good to 
be lost ; and that must be the excuse for printing it here. 

L 2 



148 LETTERS. 

arrival of the curious papers. The naming of the re- 
gent Morton, instead of Murray, in the transcript was 
a gross blunder of the transcriber, who had been dream- 
ing of these two celebrated persons till he confused them 
in his noddle. 

I shall despatch this by a capable frank, having only 
to apologize for its length of arrival by informing you 
I have been absent in Dumfries-shire for some time, 
waiting on my young chief, like a faithful clansman. 
I am always 

Most faithfully yours, 

Walter Scott. 

4th October. 
Ahhotsford. 1824. 



Mr. Barton had been requested by a friend to ask Sir 
Walter Scott to copy for her, by way of Autograph, the 
well-known description of Melrose Abbey by moon- 
light : the petition was good-naturedly granted ; but 
instead of the usual ending, 

" Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
And, home returning, soothly swear 
Was never scene so sad and fair !" 

the poet had penned this amusing variation. 

Then go — and meditate with awe 
On scenes the author never saw, 
Who never wander' d by the moon 
To see what could be seen by noon. 



POEMS. 



POEM S. 



so:n':n'et. 

Not in the shades of Academic bowers, 

Nor yet in classic haunts, where every breeze 
Wakes with its whispers music among trees, 

And breathes the fragrance of unnumber'd flowers, 

Has it been mine to nurse my minstrel powers. 
Nor have I, luU'd in literary ease. 
Dreamt of ascending, even by slow degrees, 

The glittering steep where Fame's proud temple towers. 

Yet have I been at times a listener 

To them whose hallow'd harps are now suspended 

In silence ! and have ventured to prefer 

A prayer in which both hope and fear were blended, 

That I might rank their fellow -worshipper 
In the esteem of some, when life is ended. 



152 POEMS. 



GREAT BEALINGS CHURCHYARD. 

A SUMMER EVENING. 

It is not onlj while we look upon 

A lovely landscape, that its beauties please ; 

In distant days, when we afar are gone 
From such, in fancy's idle reveries, 
Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize. 

It comes in living beauty, fresh as when 
We first beheld it : valley, hill, or trees 

O'ershadowing unseen brooks ; or outstretch'd fen. 

With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again. 

Such pictures silently and SAveetly glide 

Before my " mind's eye ;" and I welcome them 

The more, because their presence has supplied 
A joy, as pure and stainless, as the gem 
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem 

Of the fair garden's queen, the lovely Rose, 
Ere breeze, or sunbeam, from her diadem, 

Have stol'n one brilliant, and around she throws 

Her perfumes o'er the spot that with her beauty glows. 



POEMS. lo3 

Bear witness, many a loved and lovely scene, 

Which I no more may visit ; are ye not 
Thus still my own ? Thy groves of shady green. 

Sweet Gosfield ! or thou, wild, romantic spot ! 

Where, by grey craggy cliff, and lonely grot, 
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed: 

Yet still remain as fresh, and unforgot, 
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed 
Upon your charms ; and yet months, years, since then 
have sped 

Their silent course. And thus it ought to be. 
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years, 

Thou lovely dwelling of the dead ! with thee : 
For there is much about thee that endears 
Thy peaceful landscape ; much the heart reveres. 

Much that it loves, and all it could desire 
In Meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears 

Have been too busy, and we would retire 

E'en from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire. 

Then art thou such a spot as man might choose 
For still communion : all around is sweet. 

And calm, and soothing ; when the light breeze woos 
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat. 
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet, 

O'ertop, and almost hide the edifice 

They beautify ; no sound, except the bleat 

Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss 

Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss ? 



154 POEMS. 

" Light thickens ;" and the moon advances ; slow 
Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels : 

Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low 
And mossy grey, her silver light reveals : 
Now quivering through the lime-tree foliage steals ; 

And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed. 
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals 

To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread, 

Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead ! 



BEALINGS CHURCHYARD. 

DECEMBER 19, 1835. 

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. M . 

Winter's stern winds sweep round 
The sepulchre where thy cold reliques lie ; 

But thou hear'st not their sound 
As through the lofty leafless limes they sigh. 

While we who went to-day 
With thoughts too deep for tears, unto thy worth 

Our last sad debt to pay. 
Think but of thee beside the blazino; hearth. 



POEMS. loo 

And now, with thankful heart 
Let us thy cherish'd memory enshrine ; • 

And, if our tears must start, 
Let them be brightened by a hope divine. 

Rest in thy quiet cell ! 
Till the last trumpet shall its silence burst ; 

When at that quickening spell 
The dead in Christ shall joyfully rise first. 



TO FEIEXDS 
GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE. 

SiNXE Summer invites you to visit once more 
The haunts that you love upon Ocean's cool shore, 
AYliere billows are foaming and breezes are free, 
Accept at our parting a farewell from me. 

My fancy can picture the pleasures in view. 
Because I so often have shared them with you ; 
But unable this season to taste them again, 
I must feast on the pleasure that flows from my pen. 



156 POEMS. 

The ramble at morning when morning awakes. 
And the sun through the haze like a beacon-fire breaks. 
Illuming to sea- ward the billows' white foam. 
And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam. 

And then after breakfast, when all are got out, 
The saunter, the lounge, and the looking about ; 
The search after shells, and the eye glancing bright. 
If cornelian or amber should come into sight. 

And, sweetest of all, the last ramble at eve. 
When the splendours of daylight are taking their leave ; 
When the sun's setting rays, with a tremulous motion, 
Are reflected afar on the bosom of ocean. 



Oh ! pleasures there are which the pen cannot paint. 
And feelings to which all expression is faint ; 
And such to the bosom at sun-set are known 
As we muse by the murmuring billows alone. 



POEMS. 15' 



TO J. W. 

Thou hast roam'd by Deben's side, 

Seen the ebb and flow 
Of its radiant, rippling tide 

Daily come and go. 

Thou hast drawn the balmy air, 

Breathed the influence 
Of the breezes wandering there, 

Gather'd health from thence. 

Thou hast sojourn'd too awhile 
With kind hearts around ; 

In their frank and cordial smile 
Friendly welcome found. 

Thou hast shared their sea-side hours, 

And their country walk ; 
With them in their garden bowers 

Held familiar talk. 

Now thy busier lot is cast 

In the world to be, 
Let the memory of the past 

Still abide with thee. 



lo8 POEMS. 

Grive the world its rightful due, 

Not one atom more ; 
Keep unworldly thoughts and true 

In thy bosom's core ! 

Be such thoughts and feelings high 

Still thy better part ; 
The world shall never cheat thine eye. 

Or paralyse thy heart. 



TWO so:n^n^ets. 
I- 

GUIDO FAWKES. 

The city is alive ! through all her streets 
Is heard the sound of trump or beat of drum, 
The signal of the sentinels, or hum 

Deep but not loud, as rumour's tongue repeats 

Tidings of terror unto all she meets : 

While thousands, wrapt in expectation dumb. 
Are waiting — till from dungeon deep shall come 

The desperate agent in such daring feats. 



POEM^. 1 59 

He comes ! each straining eye, with gazing dim, 
On him is riveted ; his fearful name 
Low, broken murmurs only may proclaim ; 
Yet every glance, instinctive, turns to him, 
Tracing each feature, scanning every limb, 
As if his deed had won immortal fame. 



II. 
OLD GUY. 



It is a bright but cold November day ; 
And in the centre of the villagegreen 
A troop of dirty ragged boys are seen. 

In poor and mean processional display. 

If vulgar Farce and Famine could be gay, 
One might conceive the spectacle had been 
Plotted and plann'd that hopeful pair between, 

So grim and gaunt its actors and array. 

How are the mighty fallen ! Is this the dread 
And fearless Guido ; by each urchin's cry 
Hail'd but in sport, or hooted as " Old Guy," 

With whiten'd face begrimed with dirty red. 

In ribald mockery to the bonfire led ? 
Such is the fame that ends in infamy ! 



160 POEMS. 



Not ours the vows of such as plight 

Their troth in sunny weather, 
While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 

To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow. 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 

And render'd us, by sorrow's ties. 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth. 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time, 
And through death's shadowy portal ; 

IMade by adversity sublime, — 
By faith and hope immortal. 



POEMS. 161 



ORFORD CASTLE. 



Beacon for barks that navigate the stream 
Of Ore or Aid, or breast the ocean spray : 
Landmark for inland travellers far away 

O'er heath and sheep-walk — as the morning beam 

Or the declining sunset's mellower gleam 
Lights up thy weather-beaten turrets grey ; 
Still dost thou bear thee bravely in decay, 

As if thy by-gone glory were no dream ! 

Yea, now with lingering grandeur thou look'st down 
From thy once fortified, embattled liill. 
As if thine ancient office to fulfil ; 

And though thy keep be but the ruin'd crown 

Of Orford's desolate and dwindled town, 

Seem'st to assert thy sovereign honour still. 



M 



162 POEMS. 



THE 



POOL OF BETHESDA. 



Around Bethesda's healing wave, 
Waiting to hear the rustling wing 

Which spoke the angel nigh who gave 
Its virtue to that holy spring. 

With patience, and with hope endued, 

Were seen the gather'd multitude. 

Among them there was one, whose eje 
Had often seen the waters stirr'd ; 

Whose heart had often heaved the sigh, 
The bitter sigh of hope deferr'd ; 

Beholding, while he suffer 'd on, 

The healing virtue given — and gone ! 

No power had he ; no friendly aid 
To him its timely succour brought i 

But, while his coming he delay'd, 
Another won the boon he sought ; 

Until the Saviour's love was shown, 

Which heal'd him by a word alone ! 



POEMS. 16 

Had tliej who watch'd and waited there 
Been conscious who was passing hj, 

With what unceasing, anxious care 

Would they have sought his pitying eye ; 

And craved, with fervency of soul, 

His power Divine to make them whole I 

But habit and tradition sway'd 

Their minds to trust to sense alone ; 

They only hoped the angel's aid ; 

While in their presence stood, unknown, 

A greater, mightier far than he. 

With power from every pain to free. 

Bethesda's pool has lost its power ! 

No angel, by his glad descent, 
Dispenses that diviner dower 

Which with its healing waters went; 
But He, whose word surpass'd its wave, 
Is still omnipotent to save. 

Saviour ! thy love is still the same 

As when that healing word was spoke ; 

Still in thine all-redeeming name 

Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke ! 

O I be that power, that love disjplay'd. 

Help those whom thou alone canst aid ! 

M 2 



164 POEMS. 



AFULL-BLOWX EOSE. 

A FULL-BLOWN rose, in beauty's pride, 
By chance my wand'ring eye descried ; 
Its dewy fragrance, scattered wide. 
Perfumed the gales of morning. 

When evening sunbeams tinged the sky 
I hasten'd forth, again to spy 
The charms which struck my roving eye 
So early in the morning. 

But ah ! its beauties all were flown ! 
And all its humid fragrance gone ! 
All that the sun had glanced upon. 
So lovely in the morning. 

Wither'd by the scorching heat, 
It lay in fragments at my feet, 
No more my happy sight to greet 
On any future morning. 

So short, so frail is beauty's reign ! 
Who can the pensive sigh restrain ? 
The longest date its charms can gain 
Is but a summer's morning ! 



POEMS. I6i 



TO LADY PEEL, 

WITH A COPY OF 

MISS BARTON'S " SCRIPTURE NARRATIVE." 

Inscribing these small tomes to thee. 
Lady, admits at least this plea, 

(Nor do I need another,) 
That in thy character I trace 
The matron virtues which should grace 

An English wife and mother. 

If such, and those whom most they love, 
Our humble labours but approve. 

No higher compensation 
Could fall within the narrow scope 
Of our most cherish'd wish and hope 

To serve our generation. 



166 POEMS. 



son:n^et. 

ON TRUE WORSHIP. 

The patriarcli worshipp'd leaning on his staiF ! 
And well, metliinks, it were, if such our creed 
That we, in every hour of truest need, 

From the same hidden fount could inly quaff : 

We trust in outward aids too much by half! 
Could we within on "living bread" but feed, 
And drink of living streams, our souls would heed 

All hindering helps but as the husk and chaif. 
Then every day were holy ! every hour 

Each heart's true homage might ascend on high, 

Ascribing to the Eternal Majesty, 

And to the Lamb, thanksgiving, glory, power, 
Now and for ever ! till the ample dower 

Of earth's full praise with that of heaven should vie. 



POEMS. 167 



TO MY DAUGHTEK. 



Sayeet pledge of joys departed ! as I lay 

Wrapt in deep slumber, I beheld thee led 

By thy angelic mother, long since dead — 
Methought upon her face such smiles did play 
As gild the summer morning. A bright ray 

Of lambent glory stream'd around her head. 

I gazed in rapture ; love had banish'd dread, 
Even as light the darkness drives away. 

Silent awhile ye stood — I could not move, 
Such sweet delight my senses did o'erpower ; 

When, in mild accents of celestial love, 
Thy guardian spoke — " Cherish this opening flower 
With holy love ; that so the future hour 

Shall re -unite our souls in bliss above." 



[1811.] 



168 POEMS. 



TEARS. 



JESUS WEPT." JoHX XI. 35. 



Not worthless are the tears, 
When pure their fountain-head, 

Which human hopes and fears 
Compel us oft to shed. 

In grief or joy they tell 

Far more than words can teach 
Their silence hath a spell 

Beyond the power of speech. 

In joy, though bright and grief, 
Its essence they make known ; 

And how they soften grief 
The mourner's heart will own. 

And tears once fiU'd His eye. 
Beside a mortal's grave, 

Who left his throne on high, 
The lost to seek and save. 

And fresh from age to age 
Their memory shall be kept ; 

While man shall bless the page 
Which tells that Jesus wept ! 



POEMS. 169 



IZAAK WALTON. 

Cheerful old man ! whose pleasant hours were spent 
Where Lea's still waters through their sedges glide ; 

Or on the fairer banks of peaceful Trent, 
Or Dove hemm'd in by rocks on either side : 

Thy book is redolent of fields and flowers. 

Of freshly flowing streams and honey-suckle bowers. 

Although I reck not of the rod and line, 
Thou needest no such brotherhood to give 

Charm to thy artless pages — they shall shine, 
And thou, depicted in them, long shall live 

For many a one to whom thy craft may be 

A thing unknown, ev'n as it is to me. 

Thy love of nature, quiet contemplation, 

Li meadows where the world was left behind ! 

Still seeking with a blameless recreation 
In troubled times to keep a quiet mind ; 

This, vdih thy simple utterance, imparts 

A pleasure ever new to musing hearts. 

And thou hast deeper feelings to revere, 
Drawn from a fountain even more divine. 

That blend thine own with memories as dear. 

With names our hearts with gratitude enshrine ; — - 

Holy George Herbert, Wotton, Ken, and Donne, 

The pious Hooker, Cranmer, Sanderson. 



1 70 POEMS. 



A CHILD'S MORNIIsrG HYMN. 

Once more the light of day I see ; 

Lord, with it let me raise 
My heart and voice in song to Thee 

Of gratitude and praise. 

The "busy bee" ere this hath gone 

O'er many a bud and bell ; 
From flower to flower is hununing on, 

To store its waxen cell. 

O may I like the bee still strive 

Each moment to employ, 
And store my mind, that richer hive, 

With sweets that cannot cloy. 

The skylark from its lowly nest 

Hath soar'd into the sky. 
And by its joyous song express'd 

Unconscious praise on high. 

My feeble voice and faltering tone 

No tuneful tribute bring ; 
But Thou canst in my heart make known 

What bird can never sing. 



POEMS. 171 

Instruct me, then, to lift my heart 

To Thee in praise and prayer ; 
And love and gratitude impart 

For every good I share : 

For all the gifts Thy bounty sends. 

For which so many pine ; 
For food and clothing, home and friends. 

Since all these boons are Thine. 

Thus let me. Lord, confess the debt 

I owe Thee day by day ; 
Nor e'er at night or morn forget, 

To Thee, God, to pray ! 



A CHILD'S EYEXIXG HY]\IX. 

Before I close my eyes in sleep. 
Lord, hear my evening prayer ; 

And deign a helpless child to keep 
With Thy protecting care. 

Though young in years, I have been taught 

Thy name to love and fear ; 
Of Thee to think with solemn thought, 

Thy goodness to revere. 



172 POEMS. 

That goodness gives each simple flower 

Its scent and beauty too. 
And feeds it in night's darkest hour 

With heaven's refreshing dew. 

Nor will Thy mercy less delight 

The infant's God to be. 
Who through the darkness of the night 

For safety trusts to Thee. 

The little birds that sing all day 

In many a leafy wood, 
By Thee are clothed in plumage gay, 

By Thee supplied with food. 

And when at night they cease to sing. 

By Thee protected still. 
Their young ones sleep beneath their wing, 

Secure from every ill. 

Thus may'st Thou guard with gracious arm 

The couch whereon I lie. 
And keep a child from every harm 

By Thy all-watchful eye. 

For night and day to Thee are one, 

The helpless are Thy care ; 
And for the sake of Thy dear Son, 

Thou hear'st an infant's prayer. 



POEMS. 173 



BISHOP HUBERT. 

'Tis tlie hour of even now, 
And with meditative brow, 
Seeking truths as yet unknown, 
Bishop Hubert walks alone. 

Fain would he, with earnest thought, 
Nature's secret laws be taught ; 
Learn the destinies of man. 
And creation's wonders scan. 

And, further jet, from these would trace 
Hidden mysteries of grace, 
Dive into the deepest theme. 
Solve redemption's glorious scheme. 

Far he has not roam'd before. 
On the solitary shore, 
He has found a little child 
By its seeming play beguiled. 

In the drifted barren sand 
It has scoop'd with baby hand 
Small recess, in which might float 
Sportive fairy's tiny boat. 



174 POEMS. 

From a hollow shell the while, 
See, 'tis filling, with a smile. 
Pool as shallow as may be 
With the waters of the sea. 

Hear the smiling bishop ask 
" What can mean such infant task ? " 
Mark that infant's answer plain — 
'^ 'Tis to hold yon mighty main." 

" Foolish infant," Hubert cries, 
" Open, if thou canst, thine eyes ; 
Can a hollow scoop'd by thee ' 
Hope to hold the boundless sea?" 

Soon that child, on ocean's brim, 
Opes its eyes and turns to him : 
Well does Hubert read its look. 
Glance of innocent rebuke : 

While a voice is heard to say, 
" If the pool, thus scoop'd in play, 
Cannot hold the mighty sea, 
What must thy researches be ? 

" Canst thou hope to make thine own 
Secrets known to God alone ? 
Can thy faculty confined 
Compass the Eternal Mind?" 

Bishop Hubert turns away — 
He has learnt enough to-day. 



POEMS. 175 



THE MISSIOXARY. 



He went not forth, as man too oft hath done. 

Braving the ocean billows' wild uproar, 
In hopes to gather, ere life's sands were run, 

Yet added heaps of mammon's sordid ore ; — 

He went not forth earth's treasures to explore, 
Where sleeps in sunless depths the diamond's ray ; 

Nor was he urged by love of classic lore, 
His homage of idolatry to pay 
Where ancient heroes fought, or poets pour'd their lay 

He left not home to cross the briny sea 
With the proud conqueror's ambitious aim. 

To wrong the guileless, to enslave the free, 

And win a blood-stain'd wreath of doubtful fame. 
By deeds unworthy of the Christian's name ; 

Nor to inspect with taste's inquiring eye 
Temple and palace of gigantic frame. 

Or pyramid up-soaring to the sky. 

Trophies of art's proud power in ages long gone by. 



176 POEMS. 

Nor did his fancy nurse the gentle dream 
Of nature's fond enthusiast ; who, intense 

In admiration of her charms, would seem 
To worship her ; forgetful of the offence 
Given to her great and glorious Maker thence : 

To him the woodland scenery's sylvan thrall, 
The sunny vale, or cloud-capt eminence. 

The brooklet's murmur, or the cataract's fall. 

But waken'd thoughts of Him whose word had form'd 
them all. 

He went abroad — a follower of the Lamb, 

To spread the gospel's message far and wide ; 
In the dread power of Him, the great " I AM," 

In the meek spirit of the Crucified ; 

With unction from the Holy Ghost supplied, — 
To war with error, ignorance, and sin. 

To exalt humility, to humble pride. 
To still the passions' stormy strife within ; 
Through wisdom from above immortal souls to win. 

To publish unto those who sat in night. 

And death's dark shadow, tidings of glad things ; 
How unto them the gospel's cheering light 

Was risen, with life and healing on its wings ; 

How he, the Lord of glory. King of kings. 
Their souls to save from sin's enthralling yoke. 

Had left his throne, where harps of golden strings, 
By seraphs touch'd, in heavenly music spoke ; 
And, coming down to earth, the chain of Satan broke. 



POEMS. 177 

How Christ for man upon the cross had died, 

And pour'd His blood to cleanse their guilt away ; 

That, plunged beneath its sin-effacing tide, 

Their spirits, made no more the spoiler's prey. 
Might stand before Him clothed in white array. 

The Saviour's ransom'd and redeem'd among. 
Who worship in his presence night and day. 

And join in that "innumerable throng," 

Whose voice is as the voice of many waters strong. 

Such was his errand. What though he miglit fare 
Year after year, along a foreign strand, 

A ''lonely pilgrim, as his fathers were ;" — 
He trusted still his Master's guiding hand. 
And still he felt his humble faith expand — 

That He who sent him forth would ever prove 
A rock of shadovf in the weary land ; 

And give him, in the riches of his love, 

To drink the way-side brook, and comfort from above. 



Thus did he journey on from day to day, 

'Mid savage tribes, a Missionary mild ; 
Teaching and preaching Jesus, until they. 

First by his meek benevolence beguiled. 

Then by a mightier spirit, undefiled 
With aught of human weakness, touch'd and won, 

Were to their heavenly Father reconciled : 
And, through his well-beloved and glorious Son, 
To them God's kingdom came, by them his will was done. 



178 POEMS. 

Tlien through the influence of redeeming grace, 
Whose might can even human wildness tame. 

The savage soften'd, and the savage place 
A scene of blessedness and love became : 
And there, where bloody rites and deeds of shame, 

Under religion's name, were done before. 

Now, blessed change ! — Jehovah's holy name — 

His Son's — the Comforter's — along the shore 

In sounds of praise and prayer the wandering breezes bore. 

But what became of him, that lonely one, 

Who thus went forth, commission'd from on high ? 
He, when he saw his work of love was done. 

Felt also that his rest was drawing nigh ; 

And though it woke perchance a transient sigh 
Of natural regret, to think that he 

Should far from home and friends an exile die, — 
Yet could he humbly pray on bended knee, 
" Thy v/ill, O God ! not mine, accomplish'd be," 

Beneath a palm tree, by the house of prayer, 
Upon a bright and tranquil summer eve. 

He feebly sat ; and round him gather'd there 
The little flock he was so soon to leave : 
With reverent affection did they cleave 

About him — men and women, young and old, 
With artless sorrow seem'd alike to grieve 

That he who led and kept them in the fold 

Must quit them, even for the heav'n of which he told. 



POEMS. 179 

Thej sang a hymn of thanks and praise to God ; 

And while its echoes floated yet in air, 
Their feeble pastor, kneeling on the sod, 

For them, and for himself, pour'd forth in prayer 

His wishes, hopes, affections, thanks, and care :— 
Rising, with grateful heart he look'd around. 

And when he saw that each and all were there 
To whom his spirit was so strongly bound. 
His blessing he pronounced, with low and falt'ring sound. 

They bore him home imto his lowly cot. 
And laid the dying saint upon his bed ; 

No mark of kind attention they forgot 

Toward him who long their hungry souls had fed : 
And when life's lingering spark at last was fled, 

They mourn'd for him with many a simple tear, 
Such as for pious parent should be shed ; 

And taught their children ever to revere 

The memory of one so holy and so dear. 

They buried him beneath the lofty palm 

Where last in prayer his dying charge he gave ; 
While through the leaves the breezes whisper'd calm, 

Mixt with the murmur of the distant wave ; 

And when, in after-years, the white man's grave. 
With its moss'd stone, beside old Ocean's brim, 

They pointed out to strangers, each would crave 
In broken speech, with eyes by tears made dim. 
That as he follow'd Christ, so they might follow him. 

N 2 



180 POEMS. 



OLD AGE. 

Old age ! tliou art a bitter pill 

For humankind to swallow ; 
Fraught with full many a present ill 

And fear of worse to follow. 

And yet thou art a medicine good. 

Not to be bought for money ; 
Worse than the worst of nauseous food. 

Yet sweeter far than honey. 

Thy aches and cramps, thy weary groans 
Infirmities which breed them. 

Might move the very hearts of stones. 
If stones had hearts to heed them. 

But these must come, of course, with thee. 
And none dispute, or doubt them ; 

Such may be borne, and wisest he 
Who pothers least about them. 

Old age ! be what thou wilt, thy reign 

Cannot endure for ever ; 
Feebleness, weariness, and pain 

Are links that soon must sever! 

And if thy pains the soul recall 
To heavenly truth and warning, 

Who would regret the ruin'd wall 
That lets in such a morning ? 



POEMS. 18 i 



PENIST'S TREATY WITH THE INDIANS. 



The only treaty framed in Christian love 
Without a single oath ; and by that token 

Recorded and approved in heaven above. 
And in a world of sin and strife unbroken I 



Dews that nourish fau^est flowers. 
Fall unheard in stillest hours ; 

Streams which keep the meadows green. 
Often flow themselves unseen. 

Violets hidden on the ground, 

Throw their balmy odours round ; 

Viewless in the vaulted sky. 
Larks pour forth their melody. 

Emblems these, which well express 

Virtue's modest loveliness ; 
Unobtrusive and unknown, 

Felt but in its fruits alone ! 



182 POEMS. 



ALDBOEOUGH. 

TO THE MEMORY OF CRABBE. 

How could I tread this winding shore. 

In sadness, or in glee. 
By Thee so often paced of yore, 

Nor turn, in thought, to thee ? 

For here were pass'd thy early days, 
With fortune waging strife ; 

And here thy muse's embryo lays 
First struggled into life. 

Thy verse hath stamp'd on all around 

The impress of its truth. 
And render'd far and near renown'd 

" The Borough" of thy youth ! 

The self-same sea in foam may break 
On shores less tame or drear ; 

But were it only for thy sake^ 
These to my heart were dear. 



POEMS. 183 



TO A FEIE:NrD, 



ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 

Though nature's feelings rend thy heart, 

Shock'd by a parent's death ; 
Though friendship could not turn the dart 

Which took his vital breath ; 

The record of my feeble pen, 

Engraven on thy breast. 
May welcome to thee once again 

The pillow of thy rest. 

Though quick the change, and prompt the stroke 

That snapt the tender chain 
Of life, it saved him from the yoke 

Of slow consuming pain. 

With much to hope and nought to fear 

Beyond the silent tomb. 
Peaceful was once his dwelling here ; 

More peaceful now his home. 



184 POEMS. 

To him whose task was daily done. 
Death could be no surprise ; 

For well he knew that life's last sun 
Would with his Saviour rise. 

The splendour of that promised morn 
What numbers can set forth, 

When robes of glory shall adorn 
The majesty of worth ? 

Still on his manly face and form 
Thy memory long may dwell, 

And still affection's yearnings warm 
Thy wounded bosom swell. 

Nature such feelings will betray, 

And own the tribute due ; 
But faith should wipe the tear away. 

And inward peace renew. 

The path a righteous sire has trod 
Distinctly points to heaven : 

The grace and goodness of his Grod 
To thee are also given. 

That path observed, what rapture sweet, 

Beyond my skill to paint, 
Thy panting soul shall feel to greet 

The father in the saint ! 



POEMS. 185 



IN THE FIRST LEAF OF AX ALBUM. 

The warrior is proud when the battle is won ; 
The eagle is proud as he soars to the sun ; 
The beauty is proud of the conquest she gains ; 
And the humblest of poets is proud of his strains : 
Then forgive me, my friend, if some pride should be mine. 
When I fill the first leaf in an Album of thine. 

The miser is glad when he adds to his hoard ; 
The epicure, placed at the sumptuous board ; 
The courtier when smiled on ; but happier the lot 
Of the friend who though absent is stiU unforgot : 
Then believe that a feeling of gladness is mine, 
AYhen I fill the first page of an Album of thine. 

But mj pride and my pleasure are chasten'd with fears, 
As I look down the vista of far distant years, 
Ajid reflect that the progress of time must ere long 
Bring oblivion to friendship, and silence to song : 
Thus thinking, what mingled emotions are mine, 
A^ I fiU the first leaf in an Album of tliine ! 

Yet idle and thankless it were to allow 
Such reflections to sadden the heart and the brow ; 
We know that earth's pleasures are mixt with alloy, 
But if virtue approve them, 'tis wise to enjoy : 
And this brief enjoyment at least shaU be mine, 
As I write my name first in this Album of thine. 



186 POEMS. 



A STREAM. 



It flows through flowery meads, 
Gladdening the herds that on its margin browse ; 

Its quiet bounty feeds 
The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs. 

Grently it murmurs by 
The village churchyard, with a plaintive tone 

Of dirge-like melody, 
For worth and beauty modest as its own. 

More gaily now it sweeps 
By the small school-house, in the sun-shine bright. 

And o'er the pebbles leaps. 
Like happy hearts by holiday made light. 



SABBATH DAYS. 

MODERNIZED FROM VAUGHAN'S ''SILEX SCINTILLANS." 

Types of eternal rest — fair buds of bliss. 

In heavenly flowers expanding week by week ; 

The next world's gladness imaged forth in this — 
Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak. 



POEMS. 187 

Eternity in time — the steps by which 
We climb to future ages — lamjDs that light 

Man through his dai'ker days, and thought enrich, 
Yielding redemption for the week's dull flight. 

Wakeners of prayer in man — his resting bowers 

As on he journeys in the narrow way, 
Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours 

Are waited for, as in the cool of day. 

Days fixt by God for intercourse with dust. 
To raise our thoughts and pui^ify our powers ; 

Periods appointed to renew our trust — 
A gleam of glory after six days' showers. 

A milky way mark'd out through skies else drear. 
By radiant suns that warm as well as shine : 

A clue which he who follows knows no fear, 

Though briers and thorns around his path may twine. 

Foretastes of heaven on earth — pledges of joy 
SurpassiQg Fancy's flights and Fiction's story — 

The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy, 

And the bright out-courts of immortal glory. 



188 POEMS. 



son:n'et. 



TO 



WILLIAM AND MARY HO WITT. 

The breath of Spring is stirring in the wood, 

Whose budding boughs confess the genial gale ; 

And thrush and blackbird tell their tender tale ; 
The hawthorn tree, that leafless long has stood, 
Shows signs of blossoming ; the streamlet's flood 

Hath shrunk into its banks, and in each vale 

The lowly violet, and the primrose pale. 
Have lured the bee to seek his wonted food. 
Then up ! and to your forest haunts repair, 

Where E-obin Hood once held his revels gay ; 

Yours is the greensward smooth, and vocal spray ; 
And I, as on your pilgrimage ye fare. 
In all your sylvan luxuries shall share 

When I peruse them in your minstrel lay. 



POEMS. 189 



SOJ^NET. 



TO THE SAME. 



Winter hath bound the brooks in icy chains ; 

The bee that murmur'd in the cowslip bell, 

Now feasts securely in his honey'd cell ; 
Silence is on the woods and on the plains, 
And darkenino; clouds and desolatino^ rains 

Have marr'd your forest-fountain's quiet spell : 

Yet, though retired from these awhile ye dwell, 
Your heart's best hoard of poesy remains. 
The sports of childhood, the exhaustless store 

Of home-born thoughts and feelings dear to each. 

Converse, or silence eloquent as speech ; 
History's rich page, tradition's richer lore 
Of tale and legend prized in days of yore ; — 

These, worthy of the muse, are in your reach. 



190 POEMS. 



SONNET. 

IN MEMORIAL OF ELIZABETH FRY. 

Thy name, now writ in heaven, will live on earth, 
So long as human hearts are left to prize 
That sterling virtue whose deep source supplies 

Each Christian grace, a woman's highest worth ! 

And Heaven forbid we e'er should dread a dearth 
Of these in England ; where the good and wise 
Have, by their reverence of such sanctities, 

Honour'd the country which had given them birth. 

True gospel preacher of that law of love 
By Jesus taught ; not for thyself would I 
Indite this simple, brief obituary ! 

May thy example kindred spirits move 

To follow thee ; and thus themselves approve 
Number'd with them whose record is on high ! 



POEMS. 191 



ON SOME ILLUSTHATIONS 



COWPER'S 'CRURAL WALKS." 

Why are these tamer landscapes fraught 
With charms whose meek appeal 

To sensibility and thought 
The heart is glad to feel ? 

Cowper, thy muse's magic skill 
Has made them sacred ground ; 

Thy gentle memory haunts them still, 
And casts a spell around. 

The hoary oak, the peasant's nest, 
The rustic bridge, the grove, 

The turf thy feet have often prest, 
The temple and alcove ; 

The shrubbery, moss-house, simple urn, 
The elms, the lodge, the hall, — 

Each is thy witness in its turn, 
Thy verse the charm of all. 



192 POEMS. 

Thy verse, no less to nature true 

Than to religion dear. 
O'er every object sheds a hue 

That long must linger here. 

Amid these scenes the hours were spent 

Of which we reap the fruit ; 
And each is now thy monument. 

Since that sweet lyre is mute. 

" Here, like the nightingale's, were pour'd 

Thy solitary lays," 
Which sought the glory of the Lord, 

" Nor ask'd for human praise." 



THE WALL-FLOWER. 

Delightful flower, whose fair and fragrant bloom 
Tinges with beauty many a mouldering tower, 

Lending a grace to its declining doom 

Beyond the splendour of its proudest hour. 

What art thou like ? the cheerful smile of those 
Whose eyes are dim with years, whose locks are grey 

The tranquil brightness of whose evening shows 
They gave to God the morning of their day. 



POEMS. 193 



BUT IT SHALL COME TO PASS, THAT AT EVENING TIME IT 
SHALL BE LIGHT." Zech. xiv. 7. 



We journey througli a vale of tears, 

Bj many a cloud o'ercast ; 
And worldly cares, and worldly fears. 

Go with us to the last ! 
Not to the last — Thy word hath said. 

Could we but read aright : 
Poor Pilgrim ! lift in hope thy head ; 

At eve there shall be light. 

Though earth-born shadows now may shroud 

Thy thorny path awhile ; 
God's blessed word can rend each cloud, 

And bid the sunshine smile : 
Only believe, in living faith, 

His love and power Divine, 
And, ere life's sun shall set in death. 

His light shall round thee shine. 

When tempest-clouds are dark on high, 

His bow of love and peace 
Shines sweetly in the vaulted sky, 

Betokening storms shall cease ! 
Walk on thy way, with hope unchill'd. 

By faith, and not by sight ; 

So shalt thou own His word fulfiU'd, 

At eve it shall be light. 
o 



194 POEMS. 

WINTER EVENINGS. 

The summer is over, 

The autumn is past, 
Dark clouds o'er us hover. 
Loud whistles the blast ; 
But clouds cannot darken, nor tempest destroy 
The soul's sweetest sunshine, the heart's purest joy. 

The bright fire is flinging 

Its happy warmth round : 
The kettle too singing. 
And blithe is its sound : 
Then welcome in evening, and shut out the day. 
And with it its soul-fretting troubles away. 

Our path is no bright one. 
From morning till eve ; 
Our task is no light one. 
Till day takes its leave : 
But now let us cheerfully pause on our way. 
And be thankfuUy cheerful, and blamelessly gay. 

We'll turn to the pages 

Of history's lore ; 
Of bards and of sages 
The beauties explore : 
And share o'er the records we love to unroll 
The *' feast of the reason and flow of the soul." 



POEMS. 195 

To you who have often, 

In life's later years, 
Brought kindness to soften 
Its cares and fears ; 
To you, with true feeling, your Poet and Friend, 
The joys you have heightened may fondly commend. 



DESPISE NOT THOU THE CHASTENIXG OF THE ALMIGHTY 

Job v. 17. 



The sunshine to the flower may give 
The tints that charm the sight. 

But scentless would that flow'ret live 
If skies were always bright ; 

Dark clouds and showers its scent bestow, 

And purest joy is born of woe. 

He who each bitter cup rejects. 

No living spring shall quaff: 
He whom Thy rod in love corrects. 

Shall lean upon Thy staff: 
Happy, thrice happy, then, is he 
Who knows his chast'ning is from Thee, 
o 2 



196 POEMS. 



ON SOME PICTURES. 

They err'd not who relied for fame 
On works of such magnificence ; 

Whose charms, unchangeably the same, 
Surprise and ravish soul^and sense. 

For here, though long since dead, they live 
With power to waken smiles and tears ; 

And to unconscious canvass give 

What lived and breathed in distant years 

What stiU shall captivate, when we 
Who now with admiration gaze. 

Like those who fashion'd them, shall be 
The creatures of departed days. ' 

StiU shall that sleeping infant's face 

Beauty and innocence reveal ; 
That sainted mother's matron grace 

To every mother's heart appeaL 

Those misty mountains still shall rise. 
As now they do ; those vales expand ; 

And still those torrents, trees, and skies, 
Tell of each master's magic hand. 



POEMS. 197 



As I roam'd on the beacli, to my memory rose 
The bliss I had tasted in moments gone by ; 

When my soul could be soothed in a scene of repose, 
And my spirit exult in an unclouded sky ! 

I thought of the past ; and while thinking, thy name 
Came uncall'd to my lips, but no language it found ; 

Yet my heart felt how dear and how hallow'd its claim — 
I could ihink^ though my tongue could not utter a sound. 

The beginning and end of our love was before me. 
And both touch'd a chord of the tenderest tone ; 

Thy spirit, then near, shed its influence o'er me, 
And told me that stiU thou wert truly mine own. 

I thought at that moment, (how dear was the thought I) 
There still was a union that death could not break ; 

And if with some sorrow the feeling were fraught. 
Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake. 

Thus musing on thee, every object around 

Seem'd to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear ; 

And each murmm^ing wave reach'd the shore with a sound 
As soft as the tones of thy voice to mine ear. 



198 POEMS. 



THE PHILISTIISrE CHAMPION. 

Though he of Gath no more 

The living God defy. 
Champions like him of yore 

Satan can now supply. 

The champions he can call. 
Though hid from mortal sight, 

Are deadlier in their thrall 
Than that fierce giant's might. 

They rise not in the field 
Of war, with warlike mien ; 

But in the heart conceal'd, 
They fight for him unseen. 

Lust, with its wanton eye. 
False shame, and servile fear ; 

Despair, whose icy sigh 

Would freeze contrition's tear ;— 

Doubt, with its scornful jest ; 

Pride, with its haughty brow ;— 
These, lurking in the breast. 

Are Satan's champions now. 



POEMS. 199 



Vainly our strength we boast, 
Or reason's triumphs tell, 

Sin's hydra-headed host 
Arms not our own must quell. 

Be ours, then, those alone 

God's word and grace bestow ; 

Faith's simple sling and stone 
Shall lay each giant low. 



LEISTON ABBEY BY MOONLIGHT. 



iMPOsma must have been the sight 

Ere desolation found thee, 
When morning breaking o'er thee bright. 

With new-born glory crown'd thee : 

When, rising from the neighbouring deep, 
The eye of day survey'd thee ; 

Aroused thine inmates from their sleep, 
And in his beams array'd thee. 



200 POEMS. 

And not to Fancy's eye alone 
Thine earlier glories glisten ; 

Her ear recovers many a tone 
To which 'tis sweet to listen. 

Methinks I hear the matin song 
From those proud arches pealing ; 

Now in full chorus borne along, 
Now into distance stealing. 

But yet more beautiful by far 

Thy silent ruin sleeping 
In the clear midnight, with that star 

Through yonder archway peeping. 

More beautiful that ivy fringe 
That crests thy turrets hoary, 

Touch'd by the moonbeams with a tinge 
As of departed glory. 

More spirit-stirring is the sound 
Of night-winds softly sighing 

Thy roofless walls and arches round, 
And then in silence dying. 



POEMS. 201 



THE VALLEY OF FERN. 

There is a lone valley, few charms can it number, 

Compared with the lovely glens north of the Tweed ; 
No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber, 

And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed. 
No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving. 

Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye ; 
On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving, 

Meet the gales of the autumn or summer wind's sigh ; 
Yet by me it is prized, and full dearly I love it, 

And oft my steps thither I pensively turn ; 
It has silence within, heaven's proud arch above it. 

And my fancy has named it the Valley of Fern. 

deep the repose which its calm recess giveth, 

And no music can equal its silence to me ; 
When broken, 'tis only to prove something liveth, 

By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee. 
On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending. 

With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye ; 
Or the furze and the broom, their bright blossoms ex- 
tending. 

With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie ; — • 



202 POEMS. 

These are all it can boast ; jet, when Fancy is dreaming, 
Her visions, which poets can only discern. 

Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming, 
And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern. 

Sweet valley, in seasons of grief and dejection, 

I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care ; 
And have found in my musings a bond of connexion 

With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there : 
In the verdure that soothed, in the flowers that brighten'd. 

In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee, 
I found something that luU'd, and insensibly lighten'd. 

And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee. 
Yes, moments there are, when mute nature is willing 

To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn ; 
When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings 
are thrilling ; 

And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern. 

For the bright chain of being, though widely extended. 

Unites all its parts in one beautiful whole. 
In which grandeur and grace are enchantingly blended. 

Of which God is the centre, the light, and the soul. 
And holy the hope is, and sweet the sensation. 

Which this feeling of union in solitude brings ; 
It gives silence a voice, and to calm contemplation 

Unseals the pure fountain whence happiness springs. 



POEMS. 203 

Then Nature, most loved in her loneliest recesses, 
Unveils her fair features, and softens her stern ; 

And spreads, like that Being who bounteously blesses. 
For her votary a feast in the Valley of Fern. 



And at times in its confines companionless straying, 

Pure thoughts born in stillness have pass'd through 
my mind ; 
And the spirit within, their blest impulse obeying. 

Has soar'd from this world on the wings of the wind ; 
The pure sky above, and the still scene around me, 

To the eye which survey'd them,no clear image brought : 
But my soul seem'd entranced in the vision which bound 
me. 

As by magical spell, to the beings of thought ; 
And to him, their dread Author, the fountain of feelings, 

I have bow'd, while my heart seem' d within me to burn ; 
And my spirit contrited, for mercy appealing. 

Has call'd on his name in the Valley of Fern. 

Farewell, lovely valley, when earth's silent bosom 

Shall hold him who loves thee, thy beauties may live ; 
And thy turfs em'r aid tint, and thy broom's y ellowblossom, 

Unto loiterers like him soothing pleasure may give. 
As brightly may morning, thy graces investing 

With light and with life, wake thy inmates from sleep ; 
And as softly the moon, in still loveliness resting 

To gaze on its charms, thy lone landscape may steep. 



204 POEMS. 

Then, should friend of the bard, who hath paid with his 
praises 

The pleasure thou'st yielded, e'er seek thy sojourn, 
Should one tear for his sake fill the eye while it gazes. 

It may fall unreproved in the Valley of Fern. 



AN IN^YITATIOJSr. 

My fireside friend, the moon to-night, 
Moore says, is near the full ; 

My ingle-nook is warm and bright, 
If I be cold and dull. 

But, that I may resemble it, 

I need a guest like thee 
Beside its cheerful blaze to sit 

And share its warmth with me. 

Iron sharpens iron — the kindling touch 
Of steel strikes fire from stone ; 

That friend for friend can do as much 
We both of us have known. 

Then come, and let us try once more 

On topics grasre, or gay. 
How converse, or the muse's lore. 

Can wile an hour away. 



POEMS. 205 



AUTUMN. 

Hoarser gales are round us blowing, 

Clouds diive o'er the sky ; 
Day by day is shorter growing, 

Weary nights are nigh. 

Mom and eve are chill and dreary, 
Birds have lost their mirth ; 

Whispering leaves, of converse weary, 
Silent sink to earth. 

Flowers are in the garden faded. 

From the fields are fled ; 
Many a nook the blossom shaded 

With the seed is spread. 

Dewy drops, the long grass bending. 

Glitter bright, yet chill ; 
Earth is cold, and showers descending 

Make her colder still. 

Brighter skies and warmer weather 

Made our fancies roam ; 
Winter binds our hearts together 

Round the fire at home. 



206 POEMS. 



SPRING. 

WRITTEN FOR A CHILD'S BOOK. 

The bleak winds of winter are past, 
The frost and the snow are both gone. 

And the trees are beginning at last 
To put their green liveries on. 

And now if you look in the lane, 

And along the warm bank, may be found 

The violet in blossom again, 

And shedding her perfume around. 

The primrose and cowslip are out. 

And the fields are with daisies all gay, 

While butterflies, flitting about. 
Are glad in the sunshine to play. 

Not more glad than the bee is to gather 
New honey to store in his cell ; 

He too is abroad this fine weather. 
To rifle cup, blossom, and bell. 

The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush 
Are brimful of music and glee ; 

They have each got a nest in some bush. 
And the rook has built his on a tree. 



POEMS. 207 

The lark's home is hid in the corn, 
But he springs from it often on liigh. 

And warbles his welcome to morn, 
Till he looks like a speck in the skj. 

0, who would be sleeping in bed 

When the skies with such melody ring. 

And the bright earth beneath him is spread 
With the beauty and fragrance of spring. 



IN AX ALBUM. 

How strange the thought — a day draws nigh, 
Involved in present mystery, 
When names which here have met before 
May meet again— one moment more ! 

When amid throngs of wakening dead 
The Book of Life shall be outspread ! 
O grateful bliss, beyond compare, 
To find our names recorded there ! 



208 POEMS. 



SON]^ET. 

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH GURNEY. 1831. 

To be preserved from " sudden death" we pray : 
And many have just cause to breathe the prayer, 
Whom Grace hath not instructed to prepare 

For that most awful summons. — Happy they 

Whom He, the Light, the Life, the Truth, the Way, 
Hath train'd in living faith His cross to bear ; 
Such only shall the crown immortal wear, 

And stand before Him clothed in white array ! 

Believing thee all ready, then, shall we 
So selfishly thy sudden call profane. 
And mourn a captive's quickly sever'd chain ? 

Oh ! let us rather thank thy God for thee ! 

Trusting this line thy Epitaph may be, 

" To me to live was Christ ! to die is gain ! " 



POEMS. 209 



TO JOANISrA, 



ON HER SENDING ME THE LEAF OF A FLOWER GATHERED IN 
WORDSWORTH'S GARDEN.* 



JoAKNA ! though I well can guess 
That in mirth's very idleness. 

And raillery's enjoyment. 
This leaf is sent ; it shall not lose 
Its errand, but afford the Muse 

Some minutes' light employment. 

Thou sent'st it, in thy naughty wit, 
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit 

For a mere childish rhymer ; 
And I accept it, not as such, 
But as indicative of much 

Lovelier and far sublimer. 

I own, as over it I pore. 
It is a simple leaf, no more : 

And further, without scandal. 
It is so delicate and small 
One sees 'twas never meant at all 

For vulgar clowns to handle. 

* Written at a time when Wordsworth, was appreciated by 
very few, 

p 



210 POEMS. 

But in itself, for aught I see, 
'Tis perfect as a leaf can be ; 

For can I dc^uht a minute, 
That on the spot where first it grew, 
It had each charm of shape and hue, 

And native sweetness in it. 

Thus sever'd from the stem where first 
To life and light its beauty burst, — 

It brings to recollection 
A fragment of the poet's lay, 
Torn from its native page away, 

For critical dissection. 

But 'tis not by one leaf alone 

The beauty of the flower is known ; 

Nor do I rank a poet 
By parts, that critics may think fit 
To quote, who, " redolent of wit," 

Take up his words to show it. 

If on its stem this leaf display'd 
Beauty which sought no artful aid, 

And scatter'd fragrance round it ; 
If the sweet flower on which it grew 
Was graceful, natural, lovely too, 

Delighting all who found it ; — 



POEMS. 211 

Then will I own that flower to be 
A type of Wordsworth, or of thee ; 

For kindred virtues grace you ; 
And though the bard may think me bold, 
And thou may'st half resolve to scold, 

I in one page will place you ! 



THE SOLITARY TOMB. 



Not a leaf of the poplar above me stirr'd, 
Though it stir with a breath so lightly ; 

Not a farewell note sang the sweet singing bird 
To the sun that was setting brightly «^ 

I stood alone on the quiet hill. 

The quiet vale before me ; 
And the spirit of nature serene and still 

Gather'd around and o'er me. 

There was the Deben's glittering flood 
Far away in its channel sweeping ; 

And under the hill-side where I stood 
The dead in their graves were sleeping, 
p 2 



212 POEMS. 

Quiet their place of burial seem'd, 
Where trouble could never enter ; 

And sweetlj the rays of sunset beam'd 
On the solitary tomb in its centre. 

And often when I have wander'd here, 
And in many moods have view'd it, 

With many a form to memory dear 
My fancy has endued it. 

Sometimes it look'd like a lonely sail 
Far away on the deep green billow ; 

And sometimes like a lamb in the vale 
Asleep on its grassy pillow. 

He that lies under was on the seas 

In his days of youth a ranger ; 
Borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, 

Little cared he for danger. 

And yet through peril and toil he kept 
The freshness of gentlest feeling ; 

Never a tear has woman wept 
A tenderer heart revealing. 

But here he sleeps — ^many there are 
Who love his lone tomb and revere it ; 

And one who, like yon evening star. 
Far away, yet is ever near it. 



POEMS. 213 



IVE-GILL. 



The pride that springs frora high descent 

May be no pride of mine ; 
My lowlier views are well content 

To claim a humble line : 
Fancy shall wing no daring flight. 

And rear no lofty dome ; 
Ive-gill's small hamlet her delight, 

Ive-gill her modest home. 

And now before my inward eye 

I see a lowly vale ; 
The silent stars are in the sky, 

And moonlight's lustre pale 
Illumes its scatter'd cots and trees, 

While with a tuneful song, 
Louder and steadier than the breeze, 

Ive gladly flows along. 

The sun comes forth — the valley smiles 

In morning's blithe array ; 
The song of birds the ear beguiles 

From every glistening spray ; 



214 POEMS. 

The bee is on her journey gone 
To store her humble hive ; 

And still in music rolling on 
Is heard the gladsome Ive. 

In such a spot I love to dream 

That ancestor of mine 
Once dwelt, and saw on Ive's fair stream 

The cloudless morning shine ; 
I love to trace back " kith and kin " 

To air so fresh and free, 
And cherish still an interest in 

The bonnie North countrie. 



The rose which in the sun's bright rays 
Might soon have droop'd and perish'd, 

With grateful scent the shower repays 
By which its life is cherish'd. 

And thus have ev'n the young in years 
Found flowers within that flourish, 

And yield a fragrance fed with tears 
That joy could never nourish. 



POEMS. 215 



" WHICH THIXGS ARE A SHADOW." 



I SAW a stream whose waves were briglit 

With morning's dazzling sheen ; 
But gathering clouds, ere fall of night, 
Had darkened o'er the scene : 
" How like that tide," 
My spirit sigh'd, 
" This life to me hath been." 

The clouds dispersed ; the glowing west 

Was bright with closing day ; 

And o'er the river's peaceful breast 

Shone forth the sunset ray : — 

My spirit caught 

The soothing thought, 

" Thus life might pass away." 

I saw a tree with ripening fruit 

And shady foliage crown'd ; 
But ah ! the axe was at its root, 
And fell'd it to the ground : 
Well might that tree 
Recall to me 
The doom my hopes had found. 



216 POEMS. 

The fire consumed it ; but I saw . 

Its smoke ascend on high — 
A shadowy type, beheld with awe, 
Of that which will not die, 
But from the grave 
Will rise and have 
A refuge in the sky. 



TO AN OLD GATEWAY. 

Thou wast the earliest monument 

Of what in former days 
Had once been deem'd magnificent. 

Which met my boyish gaze. 
And first emotions kindled then, 
Now seem to start to life again. 

As thou, when morning's rays 
First strike upon thine ancient head. 
All grey and ivy-garlanded. 

Through such a gate as this perchance, 

Methought, one issued free. 
All I have read of in romance, 

And, reading, half could see ; 
Robed priests advancing one by one. 
And banners gleaming in the sun. 

And knights of chivalry : 
Until I almost seem'd to hear 
The sound of trumpet thrilling near. 



POEMS. 217 

"'Twas idlesse all" — such flights as please 

A castle-building boy, 
Whom Nature early taught to seize 

Far more than childish toy, — 
The forms of fancy, free to range 
O'er rhyme and record old and strange, 

And with romantic joy 
Who even then was wont alone 
To dream adventures of his own. 

Alas ! the morning of the soul 

Has heavenly brightness in it ; 
And as the mind's first mists unroll. 

Makes years of every minute — 
Years of ideal joy : — life's path 
At first such dewy freshness hath, 

'Tis rapture to begin it ; 
But soon, too soon, the dew-drops dry, 
Or glisten but in sorrow's eye. 

It boots but little — smiles and tears. 

Even from beauty beaming. 
Must fade alike with fleeting years, 

Like phantoms from the dreaming : 
And never can they be so bright 
As when life's sweet and dawning Kght 

On both by turns was gleaming ; 
Unless it be when, unforgot. 
We feel " they were and they are not." 



218 POEMS, 



FIRESIDE QUATRAINS 

TO CHARLES LAMB. 

It is a mild and lovely winter night. 

The breeze without is scarcely heard to sigh ; 

The crescent moon and stars of twinkling light 
Are shining calmly in a cloudless sky. 

Within the fire burns clearly : in its rays 

My old oak book-case wears a cheerful smile ; 

Its antique mouldings brighten'd by the blaze 
Might vie with any of more modern style. 

That rural sketch — that scene in Norway's land 
Of rocks and pine trees by the torrent's foam — 

That landscape traced by Gainsborough's youthful hand, 
Which shows how lovely is a peasant's home — 

That Virgin and her Child, with those sweet boys — 
All of the fire-light own the genial gleam ; 

And lovelier far than in day's light and noise 
At this still hour to me their beauties seem. 

One picture more there is, which should not be 
Unhonour'd or unsung, because it bears 

In many a lonely hour my thoughts to thee. 
Heightening to fancy every charm it wears — 



POEMS. 219 

A quaint familiar group — a mother mild 

And joung and fair, who fain would teach to read 

That urchin, by her patience unbeguiled, 
The volume open on her lap to heed. 

With fingers thrust into his ears he looks 

As much he wish'd the weary task were done ; 

And more, far more, of pastime than of books 
Lurks in that arch dark eye so full of fun. 

Graver, or in the pouts, (I know not well 
Which of the twain,) his elder sister plies 

Her needle so, that it is hard to tell 

What the full meaning of her downcast eyes. 

Dear Charles, if thou shouldst haply chance to know 
Where such a picture hung in days of yore, 

Its highest worth, its deepest charm, to show 
I need not tax my rhymes or fancy more. 

It is not womanhood in all its grace. 

And lovely childhood plead to me alone ; 

Though these each stranger still delights to trace, 
And with congratulating smile to own : 

No — with all these my feelings fondly blend 
A hidden charm unborrowed from the eye ; 

That wakes the memory of my absent friend. 
And chronicles the pleasant hours gone by. 



220 POEMS. 



SONISTET. 

TO THE SISTER OF AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW. 

" Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! " 
If SO5 we should not with, indifference meet 
Aught that recalls a memory so sweet 

As one of bright and early days gone by ! 

For, could we but abide continually 

As we were wont in hours so fair and fleet. 
Like little children, guiltless of deceit. 

This o'er the world were glorious mastery ! 

My school-mate's sister ! none of us can add 

One year to life's brief span, or take from thence 
Yet ought we not, dear friend, to borrow hence 

Desponding thoughts, and make our spirits sad ; 

But holier aspirations, to be clad 

In robes more white than our first innocence ! 



POEMS. 221 



THE CUESE OF DISOBEDIEXCE. 



And thy heaven that is over thy head shall he brass, and the earth that is 
under thee shall be iron." — Del-teronomy xx\'iii. 23. 



Appallin'G doom ! jet hearts there are 

Its fearful truth have found, 
Have known a heaven where sun nor star 

Its radiance sheds around ; 

An earth of u*on, whose barren breast 

Seem'd icy cold and dead, 
Whose sterile paths, by joy unblest, 

In endless mazes spread. 

They who have trod that hopeless path, 

Beneath that rayless sky. 
Have known the hour of righteous wrath 

These metaphors imply. 

These know how God's most holy will 

Can mar creation's face, 
And leave the disobedient, still, 

Xo pleasant resting-place. 



One only hope for such remains — 

Repent, return, and live ; 
He who no penitent disdains, 

New heavens, new earth can gi\e. 



222 POEMS. 

Simple obedience shall restore 
Green fields and sunny skies ; 

And hearkening to His voice bring more 
Than Eden to their eyes. 



SIGISTS AND T0KE:N^S. 

He who watcheth winds that blow, 
May too long neglect to sow ; 
He who waits lest clouds should rain, 
Harvest never shall obtain. 

Signs and tokens false may prove ; 
Trust thou in a Saviour's love, 
In his sacrifice for sin. 
And his Spirit's power within. 

Keep thou Zion-ward thy face. 

Ask in faith the aid of grace, 

Use the strength which grace shall give. 

Die to self — in Christ to live. 

Faith in God, if such be thine. 
Shall be found thy safest sign, 
And obedience to His will 
Prove the best of tokens still. 



POEMS. 223 



THE lYY. 

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEXD. 

Dost thou not love, in the season of spring, 

To twine thee a floweiy wreath, 
And to see the beautiful birch-tree fling 

Its shade on the grass beneath ? 
Its glossy leaf and silvery stem, 
Oh dost thou not love to look on them ? 

And dost thou not love when leaves are greenest, 

And summer has just begun. 
When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest 

Where glistening waters run. 
To see by that gentle and peaceful beam 
The willow bend down to the sparkling stream ? 

And oh ! in a lovely autumnal day. 
When leaves are changing before thee, 

Do not Nature's charms, as they slowly decay, 
Shed their own mild influence o'er thee ? 

And hast thou not felt, as thou stood'st to gaze, 

The touching lesson such scene displays ? 

It should be thus at an age like thine ; 

And it has been thus with me. 
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine, 

As they never more can be : 



224 



POEMS. 



Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot. 
Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not. 

Hast thou seen in winter's stormiest day 

The trunk of a blighted oak, 
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay, 

Beneath time's resistless stroke, 
Round which a luxuriant Ivy had grown. 
And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its own ? 

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, 

As I, at thy years, might do, 
Pass'd carelessly by, nor turn'd again 

That scathed wreck to view : 
But now I can draw from that mouldering tree 
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 

O smile not ! nor think it a worthless thing, 

If it be with instruction fraught ; 
That which will closest and longest cling, 

Is alone worth a serious thought ! 
Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed 
Grace on the dying, and leaves not the dead ? 

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him 

Who giveth, upbraiding not. 
That his light in thy heart become not dim. 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee ! 



POEMS. 225 



SILENT WOESHIP. 

Though glorious, God, must thy temple have been 

On the day of its first dedication, 
T\Tien the cherubim wings widely waving were seen 

On high o'er the ark's holy station ; 

When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd 

To minister standing before Thee, 
Retired from the cloud which thy temple then fill'd, 

And thy glory made Israel adore Thee ; 

Though awful indeed was thy majesty then ; 

Yet the worship thy gospel discloses, 
Less splendid in show to the vision of men, 

Surpasses the ritual of Moses. 

And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd ? 

But by Him unto whom it was given 
To enter the oracle where is reveal'd 

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven. 

Who, having once enter'd, hath shown us the way, 
O Lord, how to worship before Thee ; 

Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day. 
But in spirit and truth to adore Thee. 

Q 



226 POEMS. 

This, this is the worship Messiah made known, 

When she of Samaria found Him 
By the patriarch's well sitting weary alone, 

With the stillness of noon-tide around him. 

" Woman, believe me, the hour is near. 
When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, 

Will neither be worshipp'd exclusively here. 
Nor yet at the altar of Salem. 

" For Grod is a Spirit ! and they who aright 
Would do the pure worship he loveth 

In the heart's holy temple, will seek with delight 
That spirit the Father approveth." 

And many that prophecy's truth can declare 
Whose bosoms have livingly known it ; 

Whom God has instructed to visit him there. 
And convinced that his mercy will own it. 

The temple that Solomon built to his name 

Exists but in name and in story : 
Extinguish'd long since is that altar's bright flame, 

And vanish'd each glimpse of its glory. 

But the Christian made wise by a wisdom Divine, 
Though all human fabrics may falter. 

Still finds in his heart a far holier shrine. 

Where the fire burns unquench'd on the altar. 



POEMS. 227 



TO 



THE jVIEMORY OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 

Thou should'st not to the grave descend 
Unmourn'd, unhonour'd, and unsung ; 

Could harp of mine record thine end. 

For thee that rude harp should be strung ; 

And plaintive notes as ever rung 
Should all its simple strings employ. 

Lamenting unto old and young 

The Bard who sung the Farmer's Boy. 

The Harvest Home's rejoicing cup 

Should pause, when that sad note was heard ; 
The Widow turn her Hourglass up 

With tenderest feelings newly stirr'd ; 
And many a pity-waken'd word. 

And sighs that speak when language fails, 
Should prove thy simple strains preferr'd 

To prouder poets' lofty tales. 

Circling the Old Oak Table round, 
Whose moral worth thy measure owns, 

Heroes and heroines yet are found 
Like Abner and the Widow Jones, 
Q 2 



228 POEMS. 

There Gilbert MeldrunCs sterner tones 
In virtue's cause are bold and free. 

And ev'n the patient sufferer's moans 
In pain and sorrow plead for thee. 

Nor thus beneath the straw-roof 'd cot 

Alone should thoughts of thee pervade 
Hearts which confess thee unforgot 

On heathy hill, in grassy glade ; 
In many a spot by thee array'd 

With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam, 
Thy memory lives, — in Euston's shade. 

By Barnham Water's shadeless stream. 

And long may guileless hearts preserve 

Thy memory, and its tablets be ; 
While nature's healthy power shall nerve 

The arm of labour toiling free : 
While childhood's innocence and glee 

With green old age enjoyment share ; 
Richards and Kates shall tell of thee, 

Walters and Janes thy name declare. 

How wise, how noble, was thy choice, 
To be the Bard of simple swains ; 

In all their pleasures to rejoice, 

And soothe with sympathy their pains ; 



POEMS. 229 

To sing with feeling in thy strains 

The simple subjects they discuss, 
And be, though free from classic chains, 

Our 0T\Ti more chaste Theocritus ! 



ALL IS VANITY. 

In childhood any toy 

For one short hour amuses ; 
And all its store of joy 

With its new lustre loses. 

The boy keeps up the game 
Just as the child began it ; 

For boyhood's joyous flame 
Needs novelty to fan it. 

The youth, when beauty's eye 
First wakes the pulse of pleasure. 

Thinks with a fruitless sigh 
That he has found his treasure. 

Existence further scan 

In all succeeding stages, 
View it in ripen'd man. 

In hoary-headed sages — 



230 POEMS. 

What pleasure can it give 
Unless it stoop to borrow, 

And lead us on to live 

On bliss to be — to-morrow ? 

What can this world bestow 
That should enchain us to it ? 

Or compensate the woe 

We bear who journey through it ? 

O man ! if to this earth 
Thy heart is wedded only. 

Each hope that comes with mirth 
Will leave thee twice as lonely : 

And when that hope is gone 
Thou shalt be all forsaken, 

For having leant upon 

A reed by each wind shaken. 



TO L 



Midnight has stolen on me — sound is none, 
Save when light tinkling cinders, one by one, 
Fall from my fire — or its low glittering blaze 
A faint and fitful noise at times betrays ; 
Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught 
At intervals. It is the hour of thought — 
Canst thou then marvel, now that thought is free, 
Memory should wake and fancy fly to thee ? 



POEMS. 231 

AUTUMK 

WRITTEN IN THE GROUNDS OF MARTIN COLE, ESQ. 

When is the aspect wMch nature wears 

The loveliest and dearest ? Saj is it in Spring, 

When its blossoms the apple-tree beauteouslj bears, 
And birds on each spray are beginning to sing ? 

Or is it in Summer's fervid pride, 

When the foliage is shady on every side. 

And tempts us at noon in the green-wood to hide, 
And list to the wild birds warbling ? — 

Lovely is nature in seasons like these ; 

But lovelier when Autumn's tints are spread 
On the landscape round, and the wind-swept trees 

Their leafy honours reluctantly shed : 
When the bright sun sheds a watery beam 
On the changing leaves and the glistening stream ; 
Like smiles on a sorrowing cheek, that gleam 

When its woes and cares for a moment are fled. 

And such is the prospect which now is greeting 

My glance, as I tread this favourite walk ; 
As the frolicsome sunbeams are over it fleeting, 

And each flower nods on its rustling stalk ; 
And the bosom of Deben is darkening and lightening. 
When gales the crests of its billows are whitening. 
Or bursts of sunshine its billows are brightening. 
While the winds keep up their stormy talk. 



232 POEMS. 

Of the brightness and beauty of Summer and Spring 

There is little left, but the roses that blow 
By this friendly wall. To its covert they cling, 

And eagerly smile in each sunbeam's glow ; 
But when the warm beam is a moment withdrawn. 
And the loud whistling breeze sweeps over the lawn. 
Their beauteous blossoms, so fair and forlorn, 

Seem to shrink from the wind which ruffles them so. 

Poor wind-tost tremblers ! some weeks gone by. 
You were fann'd by breezes gentler than these ; 

When you stretch'd your leaves to a summer sky, 
And open'd your buds to the hum of bees : 

But soon will the Winter be past, and you. 

When his winds are gone to the north, shall renew 

Your graceful apparel of glossy hue. 

And wave your blossoms in Summer's breeze. 

The autumnal blasts, which whirl, while we listen, 
The wan, sear leaf, like a floating toy ; 

The bright round drops of dew, which glisten 
On the grass at morn ; and the sunshine coy. 

Which comes and goes like a smile when woo'd ; 

The auburn meads, and the foamy flood. 

Each sight and sound, in a musing mood, 
Awaken sensations superior to joy. 



POEMS. 233 



A GRANDSIRE'S TALE. 



The tale I tell was told me long ago ; 

Yet many a tale, since heard, has pass'd away. 
While this still wakens memory's fondest glow, 

And feelings fresh as those of yesterday : 

'Twas told me by a man whose hairs were grey. 
Whose brow bore token of the lapse of years, 

Yet o'er his heart affection's gentle sway 
Maintain'd that lingering spell which age endears, 
And while he told his tale his eyes were dim with tears. 



But not with tears of sorrow ; — for the eye 

Is often wet with joy and gratitude ; 
And well his faltering voice, and tear, and sigh 

Declared a heart by thankfulness subdued : 

Brief feelings of regret might there intrude, 
Like clouds which shade awhile the moon's fair light ; 

But meek submission soon her power renew'd, 
And patient smiles, by tears but made more bright, 
Confess'd that God's decree was wise, and good, and right. 



234 ' POEMS. 

It was a winter's evening — clear, but still ; 

Bright was the fire, and bright the silvery beam 
Of the fair moon shone on the window-sill 

And parlour-floor ;— -the softly mingled gleam 

Of fire and moonlight suited well a theme 
Of pensive converse unallied to gloom : 

Ours varied like the subjects of a dream, 
And turn'd at last upon the silent tomb. 
Earth's goal for hoary age and beauty's smiling bloom. 

We talk'd of life's last hour ; — the varied forms 
And features it assumes ; how some men are 

As sets the sun when dark clouds threaten storms, 
And starless night ; others whose evening sky 
Resembles those which to the outward eye 

Seem full of promise ; — and with soften'd tone. 
At seasons check'd by no ungrateful sigh. 

The death of one sweet grand-child of his own 

Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known. 

She was, he said, a fair and lovely child 

As ever parent could desire to see. 
Or seeing, fondly love ; of manners mild, 

Affections gentle, even in her glee 

Her very mirth from levity was free ; 
But her more common mood of mind was one 

Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she 
In ten brief years her little course had run,-^ 
Many more brief have known, but brighter surely none. 



POEMS. 235 

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad, 
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell 

How calmly happy and how meekly glad 
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell, 
Like to the waters of some crystal well, 

In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen ; 
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell 

Glimpses of light more glorious and^serene 

Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien. 

But though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile 
Had sweetness in it passing that of mirth ; 

Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while 
Betray'd of childish sympathy no dearth : 
She loved the wild flowers scatter'd over earth. 

Bright insects sporting in the light of day. 
The blackbird trolling joyous music forth. 

The cuckoo shouting in the woods away ; 

All these she loved as much as those who seem'd more gay. 

But more she loved the word, the smile, the look. 
Of those who rear'd her with religious care ; 

With fearful joy she conn'd that holy book, 
At whose unfolded page full many a prayer, 
Li which her weal immortal had its share, 

Kecurr'd to memory ; for she had been train'd, 
Young as she was, her early cross to bear ; 

And taught to love with fervency unfeign'd 

The record of His life whose death salvation gain'd. 



236 POEMS. 

I dare not linger, like my ancient friend, 

On every charm and grace of this fair maid ; 
For, in his narrative, the story's end 

Was long with fond prolixity delay'd ; 

Though fancy had too well its close portray'd 
Before I heard it. Who but might have guess'd 

That one so fit for heaven would early fade 
In this brief state of trouble and unrest ? 
Yet only wither here to bloom in life more blest. 

My theme is one of joy, and not of grief; 

I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay, 
Nor stop to paint it slowly, leaf by leaf. 

Fading and sinking to its parent clay : 

She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day. 
His radiance brightening at his journey's close ; 

Yet with that chasten'd, soft, and gentle ray 
In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows. 
But on whose mellow'd light our eyes with joy repose. 

Her strength was failing, but it seem'd to sink 

So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear ; 
'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink, 

Which breaks in dying music on the ear, 

And placid beauty on the eye ; — no tear 
Except of quiet joy in hers was known ; 

Though some there were around her justly dear, 
Her love for whom in every look was shown. 
Yet mora and more she souo:ht and loved to be alone. 



POEMS. 237 

One summer morn tliej miss'd her ; — she had been 
As usual to the garden arbour brought, 

After their matin meal ; her placid mien 

Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought, 
Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught, 

And she was left amid that peaceful scene 

A little space ; but when she there was sought, 

In her secluded oratory green, 

Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen. 

They found her in her chamber, by the bed 

Whence she had risen, and on the bed-side chair, 

Before her, was an open Bible spread ; 

Herself upon her knees : — ^with tender care 
They stole on her devotions, when the air 

Of her meek countenance the truth made known : 
The child had died — died in the act of prayer — 

And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan. 

To heaven and endless j oy from earth and grief had flown. 



238 POEMS. 



so]sr:N^ET. 



TO NATHAN DRAKE, ON THE TITLE OF HIS NEWLY 
ANNOUNCED WORK. 



" Mornings in Spring." — Oh ! happy thou, indeed, 
Thus with the glow of sunset to combine 
Day's earlier brightness, and in life's decline 

To send thought, feeling, fancy back to feed 

In youth's fresh pastures, from the emerald mead 
To cull Spring flowers with Autumn fruits to twine ; 
And borrow from past harmonies benign 

Strains sweeter far than of the pastoral reed. 

Not such the lot of him who, ere his sun 

Have past its Summer solstice, feels the bloom 
Of June o'ershadow'd by December gloom ; 

Thankful if, when life's stormy race be run, 

The humble hope that his day's work is done. 
May cheer the shadowy entrance to the tomb. 



POEMS. 239 



MOREOVER WHEN YE FAST, BE NOT, AS THE HYPOCRITES. 
OF A SAD COUNTENANCE; FOR THEY DISFIGURE THEIR 
FACES, THAT THEY MAY APPEAR UNTO MEN TO FAST. 
VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD." 
—Matt. vi. 16. 



When thou a fast would'st keep, 

Make not its homage cheap, 
By publishing its signs to every eye : 

But let it be between 

Thyself and the Unseen ; 
So shall it gain acceptance from on high. 

God wiW. no rival brook ! 

Austere or mournful look, 
Meant human eye to catch, or heart to move, 

Seeking but man's applause. 

Glory from God withdraws, — 
Treason His Spirit sternly will reprove. 

From inward exercise. 

At seasons will arise 
Dark clouds, which cast their shadow on the brow ; 

Yet darker to impart. 

Shows a divided heart. 
Which makes the world a witness of its vow. 



240 POEMS. 

Nor think in fasts alone, 

The precept here made known, 
Instruction to the Christian's heart should teach ; 

In alms, in prayer, in praise — 

A lesson it conveys, 
'Twere wise to learn, and good to feel in each. 

Here we may plainly read, 

That ev'n the holiest deed 
Which in the least the praise of man desires ; 

Howe'er by man esteem'd, 

Will not by God be deem'd 
That homage of the heart which he requires. 



ALDBOEOUGH, FEOM THE TERRACE. 

Thy old Moot-Hall is but a relique hoar ! 

Thy time-worn Church stands lonely on the hill ! 

And he who sojourns here when winds are shrill 
In winter — peradventure might deplore 
The poor old Borough, — Borough now no more ! 

Yet, on a summer day, 'tis pleasant still. 

From this fair eminence to gaze at will 
Over the town below, and winding shore. 



POEMS. 241 



SOCKET. 



TO JOB'S THREE FRIENDS. 



However ye might err in after speech. 
The mute expression of that voiceless woe 
Whereby ye sought your sympathy to show 

With him of Uz — doth eloquently preach ! 

Teaching a lesson it were well to teach 
Some comforters — of utterance less slow. 
Prone to believe that they more promptly know 

Grief's mighty depths, and by their words can reach. 

" Seven days and nights^'' in stillness as profound 
As that of Chaos, patiently ye sate 
By the heart-stricken and the desolate ! 

And though your sympathy might fail to sound, 

The fathomless depth of his dark spirit's wound, 
Not less your silence was sublimely great ! 



242 POEMS. 



SONNET. 



TO CHARLOTTE M- 



Thou art but in life's morning, and as yet 

The world looks witchingly ; its fruits and flowers 
Are fair and fragrant, and its beauteous bowers 

Seem haunts of happiness before thee set, 

All lovely, as a landscape freshly wet 

With dew, or bright with sunshine after showers^ 
Where pleasure dwells, and Flora's magic powers 

Woo thee to pluck a peerless coronet. 

Thus be it ever : would'st thou have it so, 

Preserve thy present openness of heart ; 

Cherish the generous feelings that now start 
At base dissimulation, and that glow 

Of native love for ties which home endears ; 

And thou wilt find the world no vale of tears. 

[1820.] 



POEMS. 243 



. SOISTNET. 

TO THE REV. J. J. REYNOLDS, 

CURATE OF WOODBRIDGE. 

Dear friend, and Christian brother ; if thy creed 

May not on every point agree with mine ; 

Yet may we worship at one common shrine. 
While both alike we feel our urgent need 
Of the same Saviour ; as a broken reed 

Count all — except his righteousness Divine ; 

And equal honour reverently assign 
Unto that Spirit, who for both must plead ! 
Since in these grand essentials we agree, 

Oh what are modes of worship, forms of prayer, 

Or outward sacraments ? I would not dare 
To doubt that such are helpful unto thee ; 
Nor wilt thou fail in charity for me. 

Seeking within to know emd/eel them there ! 



R 2 



244 POEMS. 



FALL OF AN OLD TREE 

IN PLAYFORD CHURCHYARD. 

Thou hast fallen ! and in thy fall 

A poet may deplore 
The loss of one memorial 

Which time cannot restore ; 
Thy leafless boughs, and barkless stem, 
So long that green bank's diadem, 

Now greet my eyes no more : 
No longer canst thou to my heart 
Thy silent chronicles impart. 

Since thou that churchyard-gate beside 
First waved thy sapling bough. 

Beneath thee many a blooming bride 
Fresh from the nuptial vow 

Hath pass'd, with humble hopes elate ; 

And slowly borne through that low gate 
How many, sleeping now 

Beneath the turfs green flowery breast. 

Were carried to their dreamless rest ! 



POEMS. 245 

Under thy shadow, full of glee. 

The village children play'd ; 
And hoary age has seen in thee 

His own decline portray'd : 
With human joys, griefs, hopes, and fears. 
With humble smiles, and lowly tears. 

Thy memory is array'd ; 
And for their sakes, though reft and riven, 
This record of thy fall is given. 



THE LAXD WHICH XO MOETAL MAY KXOW. 

TnouaH earth has full many a beautiful spot, 

As a poet or painter might show ; 
Yet more lovely and beautiful, holy and bright. 
To the hopes of the heart and the spirit's glad sight, 

Is the land that no mortal may know. 

There the crystalline stream, bursting forth from the 
throne. 

Flows on, and for ever will flow : 
Its waves, as they roll, are with melody rife. 
And its waters are sparkling with beauty and life. 

In the land which no mortal may know. 



246 POEMS. 

And there on its margin, with leaves ever green, 
With its fruits, healing sickness and woe, 

The fair tree of life, in its glory and pride, 

Is fed by that deep inexhaustible tide 
Of the land which no mortal may know. 

There too are the lost ! whom we loved on this earth, 

With whose memories our bosoms yet glow ; 
Their reliques we gave to the place of the dead. 
But their glorified spirits before us have fled 
To the land which no mortal may know. 

Oh who but must pine, in this dark vale of tears, 

From its clouds and its shadows to go. 
To walk in the light of the glory above. 
And to share in the peace, and the joy, and the love 
Of the land which no mortal may know. 



FEAGMENT ON AUTUMN". 

The bright sun threw his glory all around ; 

And then the balmy, mild, autumnal breeze 
Swept, with a musical and fitful sound. 

Among the fading foliage of the trees ; 

And, now and then, a playful gust would seize 
Some falling leaf, and, like a living thing, 

Which flits about wherever it may please, 
It floated round in many an airy ring, 
Till on the dewy grass it feU with wearied wing. 



POEMS. 247 



OX A VIGNETTE OF WOODBRIDGE FROM 
THE WAEREN HILL. 

My own beloved, adopted town ! 

Even this glimpse of thee. 
Whereon I Ve seen the sun go down 

So oft — suffices me. 

For more than forty chequer'd vears 
Hast thou not been mj home ? 

Till aU that most this life endears 
Forbids a wish to roam. 

I came to thee a stranger youth, 

Unknowing and unknown ; 
And Friendship's solace, and Love's truth, 

In thee have been mine own. 

Loved for the living and the dead, 

No other home I crave ; 
Here would I live till life be fled, 

Here find a nameless grave. 



248 POEMS. 



INTOCATION TO AUTUMK 



" It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling ! " — and may memory, now, 

Its own inspiring influence so impart 
Unto my fancy, as to teach me how 
To give it fitting utterance. Aid me, thou 

Most lovely season of the circling year ! 
Before my leaf of life, upon its bough. 

In the chill blasts of age shall rustle sere. 

To frame a votive song to hours so justly dear. 

Autumn ! soul-soothing season ; thou who spreadest 
Thy lavish feast for every living thing ; 

Around whose leaf-strew'd path, as on thou treadest. 
The year its dying odours loves to fling, 
Their last faint fragrance sweetly scattering ; 

! let thy influence, meek, majestic, holy. 
So consciously around my spirit cling. 

That its delight may be remote from folly. 

In sober thought combined with gentle melancholy. 



POEMS. 249 

If, in tlie morning of my life, to Spring 

I paid my homage with a heart elate ; 
And with each fluttering insect on the wing, 

Or small bird, singing to its happy mate, 

And Flora's festival, then held in state ; 
If joyous sympathy with such was mine ; 

O I still allow me now to dedicate 
To thee a tenderer strain ; that tone assign 
Unto my murmuring lyre, which nature gives to thine ; — 

A tone of thrilling softness, as if caught 

From light winds sweeping o'er a late reap'd field ; 
And, now and then, be with those breezes brought 

A murmur musical, of winds conceal'd 

In coy recesses, by escape reveal'd: — 
And, ever and anon, still deeper tone 

Of Winter's gathering dirge, at distance peal'd 
By harps and hands unseen, and only known 
To some enthusiast's ear when worshipping alone. 



250 ' POEMS. 



STANZAS TO WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ. 

When first, like a child building houses with cards, 
I .mimick'd the labours of loftier bards ; 
Though the fabrics I built felt each breath that came near, 
Thy smiles taught me hope, and thy praise banish'd fear. 

Thou didst not reprove with an Aristarch's pride ; 
Or unfeelingly chill, or uncandidly chide ; 
It was not in thy nature with scorn to regard 
The fresh-breathing hopes of an untutor'd bard. 

Thou knew'st, whether fame crown'd his efforts or not, 
That a love of the Muse might enliven his lot ; 
That poesy acts like a magical balm. 
Which in seasons of sorrow can silently calm. 

It might win him no wealth, yet its treasure would add 
To the store of his mind what would make the heart glad ; 
Would make the heart glad with a pleasure more pure 
And more lasting than all the world's wealth can procure. 

Then accept of my thanks ! they are justly thy due ; 
And forgive me for seeking once more to renew 
The ties of a friendship with being begun. 
By the father once own'd, and bequeath'd to the son. 



POEMS. 251 



0:Nr THE ALEEXATIOX OF FRIENDS 



IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 



When I see leaves drop from their trees in the beginning of autumne, just 
such, thinke I, is the friendship of the world." — " He is an happy man that 
hath a true friend at his need ; but he is more truly happy that hath no 
need of his friend." — Warwick's Spare Minutes. 



The flower that blooms beneath the ray 

Of summer's cloudless sky, 
May see its blossoms torn away. 

And yet not wholly die : 
The summer sunbeams still are warm ; 
It dreads not winter's distant storm ; 

And heaven is bright on high : 
It spreads its leaves each breeze to greet ; — 
Beauty is gone, but life is sweet. 

It may not bloom again, — but still 

Its leaf is green and bright ; 
Of evening's dew it drinks its fill. 

And smiles in mornino-'s lio^ht : 
The bee may find no honey there ; 
But round its foliage, fresh and fair, 

And lovely to the sight. 
The butterfly on beauteous wing 
Will hover, and for shelter cling. 



252 POEMS. 

Not so the flower which autumn's smile, 

Instead of summer's blaze. 
Seduces, by its specious wile, 

To bloom in later days : 
Scarce hath its opening blossom spread, 
When all that charm'd it forth has fled ; 

It droops — and then decays ! 
Blasted in birth, its blight complete, 
And winter's snow its winding-sheet. 

How could it hope, the beam, which nursed 

Its bud, would bless its bloom ? 
The languid rays which warm'd the first, 

But mock the latter's doom : 
Instead of genial shower and breeze. 
Come rains that chill, and winds that freeze ; 

Instead of glory — gloom. 
How could it then but loathe to live. 
When life had nothing left to give ? 

Thus fares it with the human mind. 
Which Heaven has seem'd to bless 

With a capacity to find 

In friendship — happiness : — 

Its earliest and its brightest years 

Predict no pangs, forebode no fears ; 
No doubts awake distress ; 

Within it finds a cloudless sun. 

Without, a friend in every one. 



POEMS. 253 

How soon, ere youth itself be flown, 

It learns that friends are few ; 
Yet fondly fancies still its own 

Unchangeable, and true ! 
The spell is broken ; and the breast 
On which its hopes had loved to rest, 

Is proved but human too ; 
And Disappointment's chilling blight 
Strikes its first blossom of delight. 

But if that blow be struck when life 

Is young, and hopes are high, 
Passion will yet maintain the strife, 

Though pain extort the sigh : 
The heart, though wounded, still can beat 
With something of its earlier heat, 

And feels too young to die ; 
It may not with first rapture thrill, 
But better feelings haunt it still. 

Not so, if in life's after hours, 

The autunm of our day. 
While yet we feel our mental powers 

Unconscious of decay ; — 
K then confiding in the truth 
Of love that looks as fresh as youth, 

We see it fall away, — 
It brings a desolating grief, 
That withers more than jiower or leaf I 

[1818.] 



254 POEMS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

But yet, however cheerless seem 

Such sufferer's lonely state, 
There is a light whose cheering beam 

Its gloom can dissipate : 
It comes with healing on its wings, 
And heavenly radiance round it flings. 

It rises on the darken'd mind. 

In lustre brighter far 
Than that to outward orb assigned 

Of sun, or moon, or star ; 
And matchless is its mild control 
Over the desolate in soul. 

There is a Friend more tender, true, 

Than brother e'er can be ; 
Who, when all others bid adieu, 

Will still abide by thee ; 
Who, be their pathway bright or dim, 
Deserts not those that turn to Him. 

The heart by Him sustain'd, though deep 

Its anguish, still can bear ; 
The soul He condescends to keep, 

Shall never know despair : 



POEMS. 255 

In nature's weakness, sorrow's night, 
God is its strength, its joy, and light. 

He is the Friend, who changeth not 

In sickness or in health. 
Whether on earth our transient lot 

Be poverty or wealth ; 
In joy or grief, contempt or fame. 
To all who seek Him still the same. 

Of human hearts He holds the key : 

Is friendship meet for ours ? 
! be assured that none but He 

Unlocks its purest powers : 
He can recall the lost, the dead. 
Or give us nobler in their stead. 

Of earthly friends — who finds them true. 

May boast a happy lot ; 
But happier still, life's journey through, 

Is he who needs them not : 
A heavenly Friend — ^to know we need, 
To feel we have — is bliss indeed. 

[1823.] 



256 POEMS. 



SELBORNE. 



That quiet vale ! it greets my vision now, 
As when we saw it, one autumnal day, 
A cloudless sun brightening each feathery spray 

Of woods that clothed the Hanger to its brow : 

Woods, whose luxuriance hardly might allow 
A peep at that small hamlet, as it lay, 
Bosom'd in orchard plots and gardens gay. 

With here and there a field, perchance, to plough. 

Delightful valley ! still I own thy claim ; 
As when I gave thee one last lingering look, 
And felt thou wast indeed a fitting nook 

For him to dwell in, whose undying name 

Has unto thee bequeath'd its humble fame. 
Pure, and imperishable, — ^like his book ! 



POEMS. 257 



DUNWICH. 



** Nature has left these objects to decay, 

That what we are, and have been, may be known. 



In Britain's earlier annals thou wert set 
Among the cities of our sea-girt isle : 

Of what thou wert — some tokens linger yet 
In yonder ruins ; and this roofless pile. 

Whose walls are worshipless, whose tower — a mark, 

Left but to guide the seaman's wandering bark ! 

Yet where those ruins grey are scatter'd round, 
The din of commerce fill'd the echoing air ; 

From these now crumbling walls arose the sound 
Of hallow'd music, and the voice of prayer ; 

And this was unto some, whose names have ceased, 

The wall'd and gated city of the east ! * 

* To those who may think my epithet of " The wall'd and gated 
city of the east" somewhat hyperbolical as applied to Dunwich, 
I must submit an extract from Gardner's History of Dunwich, as 
containing at least traditional authority. 

"The oldest inhabitants of this neighbourhood report, that 
Dunwich (in ancient time) was a city surrounded with a stone 
wall, and brazen gates ; had fifty-two churches, chapels, religious 
houses, and hospitals, a king's palace, a bishop's seat, a mayor's 
mansion, and a mint." He further states his endeavours — " to 
preserve the fame of that renowned city, now almost swallowed 



258 POEMS. 

Thus time, and circumstance, and change, betray 
The transient tenure of the worldly wise ! 

Thus " Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay," 
And leaves no splendid wreck for fame to prize. 

While nature her magnificence retains. 

And from the contrast added glory gains. 

Still in its billowy boundlessness outspread, 
Yon mighty deep smiles to the orb of day. 

Whose brightness o'er this shatter'd pile is shed 
In quiet beauty. — Nature's ancient sway 

Is audible in winds that whisper round. 

The soaring sky-lark's song, the breaker's hollow sound, 



up by the sea, from sinking into oblivion, by collecting such oc- 
currences dependent thereon, as may perpetuate the memorial 
thereof to posterity." — But after all, tradition has done more for 
the past glories of Dunwich than history, " Time's slavish scribe," 
has ever condescended to do. 

There is yet to be found growing on the hills and heaths about 
Dunwich a small and very sweet rose, peculiar, I believe, to the 
place ; and said to have been brought thither by the monks. There 
is also a tune called ^^ Dunwich Roses/' known in the county. 



POEMS. 259 



TO THE SKY-LARK. 



BmD of the free and fearless wing ! 

Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray, 
Until the spacious welkin ring 

With thy enlivening matin lay : 
I love to track thy heaven-ward way 

Till thou art lost to aching sight, 
And hear thy numbers, blithe and gay, 

Which set to music morning's light. 

Songster of sky and cloud ! to thee 

Hath Heaven a joyous lot assign'd ; 
And thou, to hear those notes of glee, 

Would'st seem therein thy bliss to find : 
Thou art the first to leave behind 

At day's return this lower earth, 
And, soaring as on wings of wind. 

To spring where light and life have birth. 

Bird of the sweet and taintless hour. 
When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea, 

Ere yet upon the bending flower 
Has lit the busy humming-bee ; — ^ 
s 2 



260 POEMS. 

Pure as all nature Is to thee — 

Thou, with an instinct half divine, 

Wingest thy fearless flight so free 

Up toward a yet more glorious shrine. 

Bird of the morn ! from thee might man, 

Creation's lord, a lesson take : 
If thou, whose instinct ill may scan 

The glories that around thee break, 
Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake 

To joy and praise ; — oh ! how much more 
Should mind immortal earth forsake, 

And man look upward to adore ! 

Bird of the happy, heaven- ward song ! 

Could but the poet act thy part. 
His soul, up-borne on wings as strong 

As thought can give, from earth might start. 
And with a far diviner art 

Than ever genius can supply, 
As thou the ear, might glad the heart. 

And scatter music from the sky. 



POEMS. 261 



TO A VERY YOUNG HOUSEWIFE. 

To write a book of household song, 

Without one verse to thee. 
Whom I have known and loved so long, 

Were all unworthy me. 

Have I not seen thy needle plied 

With as much ready glee. 
As if it were thy greatest pride 

A sempstress famed to be ? 

Have I not ate pies, pudding, tarts. 
And bread, thy hands had kneaded, 

All excellent — as if those arts 
Were all that thou hadst heeded ? 

Have I not seen thy cheerful smile. 
And heard thy voice as gay. 

As if such household cares, the while. 
To thee were sport and play ? 

Yet can thy pencil copy well 
Landscape, or flower, or face ; 

And thou canst waken music's spell 
With simple, natural grace. 



262 POEMS. 

Thus variously to play thy part. 
Before thy teens are spent. 

Honours far more thy head and heart. 
Than mere accomplishment ! 

So wear the wreath thou well hast won ; 

And be it understood 
I frame it not in idle fun 

For girlish womanhood. 

But in it may a lesson lurk. 
Worth teaching now-a-days ; 

That girls may do all household work, 
Nor lose a poet's praise ! 



All round was calm and still ; the noon of night 
Was fast approaching : up the unclouded sky 

The lovely moon pursued her path of light. 
And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh : 
No sound save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh 

Fell on the ear ; and that so softly blew 
It scarcely stirr'd in passing lightly by 

The acacia's airy foliage ; faintly too 

It kiss'd the jasmine stars that at my ^window grew. 



POEMS. 263 

I turn'd me to past hours, remember'd jet, 
When we together walk'd the ocean shore ; 

What time the sun in hues of glory set, 

What time the waves obej'd the mnds no more. 
And music broke where thunder burst before : 

I thought of moments when we turn'd the page 
Of Scotland's shepherd Bard, and linger'd o'er 

His simple pictures of an earlier age, 

Kilmenj's heavenly trance, the Abbot's pilgrimage. 



Thy path, like most by mortal trod. 

Will have its thorns and flowers. 
Its stony steps, its velvet sod. 

Its sunshine and its showers. 

Through smooth and rough, o'er flower and thorn, 

Beneath whatever sky, 
Still bear thee as a being born 

For immortality ! 

And be thy choicest treasure stored 

Where Faith may hold the key ; 
For " where our treasure is " our Lord 

Hath said — " the heart shall be." 



264 POEMS. 



JOHN EYELYK 

A TRUE pMlosoplier ! well taught to scan 
The works of nature, those of art to prize ; 
The latter cordially to patronize, 

But to the first, their Author, and their plan, 

Giving that homage of far ampler span 
Awarded by the good, the great, the wise : 
A hearty lover of old household ties ; 

And, to crown all, a Christian gentleman ! 
Such wert thou, Evelyn, in a busy age 

Of restless change, to dissipation prone ; 

And, at thy death, upon thy coffin-stone, 
Hast left this record, worthy many a page. 
That " all not honest," on this mortal stage, 

" Is vain ! and nothing wise save piety alone ! " 



Evelyn is buried at Wotton, under a tomb of freestone, shaped 
like a coffin ; with an inscription thereon, by his own direction, 
stating that, " Living in an age of extraordinary events and revolu- 
tions, he had learned from thence this truth, which he desired might 
be thus communicated to posterity ; That all is vanity which 

IS I«)T HONEST ! AND THAT THERE IS NO SOLID WISDOM BUT IN 



REAL PIETY 1 



I »' 



POEMS. 265 



FAITH, HOPE, A:NrD CHARITY. 

Still abide the heaven-born three, 
Faith, and Hope, and Charity ! 
Faith — to point out our heavenly goal, 
Hope — an anchor to the soul : 
Faith and Hope must pass away ; 
Charity endure for aye ! 

Hope must in possession die ; 
Faith — ^in blissful certainty : 
These to gladden each were given ; 
Love, or Charity — for heaven ! 
For, in brighter realms above, 
Charity survives — as Love. 

Love to Him, the great I AM ! 
Love to Him, the atoning Lamb ! 
Love unto the Holy Ghost ! 
Love to all the heavenly host ! 
Love to all the human race. 
Sanctified by saving grace ! 

In that pure and perfect love, 
Treasured up for heaven above. 
Christian ! may thy grateful heart 
Have its everlasting part ; 
And, when Faith and Hope are mute, 
Find in endless Love their fruit ! 



266 POEMS. 



THE SHUNAMMITE WOMAN". 



** Behold, thou hast been careful for us with all this care ; what is to be done 
for thee? would est thou be spoken for to the king, or to the captain of the 
host ? And she answered, I dv/ell among mine own people." — 2 Kings iv. 13 . 



WoMAJsr of pure and heaven-born fame ! 

Though Scripture's hallow'd page 
Hath made no mention of thy name, 

Thou liv'st from age to age ! 

Thy labour of unwearied love 

To soothe the prophet's lot. 
Prompted by kindness from above. 

Shall never be forgot. 

The chamber built upon the wall, 

The bed whereon he lay. 
Stool, table, candlestick, — and all 

These things endure for aye. 

If humble was each boon conferr'd. 

Their giver nameless too, 
The record many a heart hath stirr'd 

Kind acts of love to do. 



POEMS. 267 

And thus in human hearts to dwell, 

A pure, undying flame. 
Is a more glorious chronicle, 

Than most that boast a name. 

For ne'er was brighter lustre thrown 

On path by woman trod, 
Than hers, who dwelt among her own — 

And CARED FOR THOSE OF GOD ! 



THE DEPARTED. 

Much as we prize the active worth 

Of those who, day by day. 
Tread with us on this toilsome earth 

Its devious, thorny way ; 
A charm more hallow'd and profound, 

By purer feelings fed, 
Imagination casts around 

The memory of the dead ! 

They form the living links, which bind 

Our spirits to that state 
Of being — pangless, pure, refined, 

For which in faith we wait. 



268 POEMS. 

By them, througli holy hope and love, 

We feel in hours serene 
Connected with a world above. 

Immortal and unseen ! 

" The dead are like the stars by day. 

Withdrawn from mortal eye ;" 
Yet holding unperceived their way 

In heaven's unclouded sky. 
The mists of earth to us may mar 

The splendour of their light ; 
But they, beyond sun, moon, or star. 

Shine on in glory bright. 

In this brief world of chance and change. 

Who has not felt and known 
How much may alter and estrange 

Hearts fondly deem'd our own ? 
But those whom we lament awhile, 

" Not lost, but gone before," 
Doubt cannot darken, sin defile, 

Or frailty alter more ! 

For death its sacred seal hath set 
On bright and by-gone hours ! 

And they, whose absence we regret. 
Seem more than ever ours ! 



POEMS. 269 

Ours, by the pledge of love and faith, 

And hope of heaven on high ; 
A trust — triumphant over death 

In immortality. 



VERSES, 



SUGGESTED BY A VERY CURIOUS OLD ROOM AT THE 
" TANKARD," IPSWICH. 



Such were the rooms in which of yore 
Our ancestors were wont to dwell ; 

And still of fashions known no more 
Even these lingering relics tell. 

The oaken wainscot richly graced 
With gay festoons of mimic flowers, 

Armorial bearings half effaced. 

All speak of proud and long-past hours. 

The ceiling, quaintly carved and groin'd, 
With pendent pediments reversed, 

A by-gone age recalls to mind. 

Whose glories song hath oft rehearsed. 



270 POEMS. 

And true, though trite, the moral taught, 
Well worthy of the poet's rhyme, 

By all that can impress on thought 
The changes made by chance and time. 

These tell "a plain, unvarnish'd tale" 
Of wealth's decline and pride's decay, 

Nor less unto the mind unveil 
Those things which cannot pass away ! 

And truths which no attention wake 
When poets sing, or parsons teach, 

Perchance may some impression make. 
When thus a public-house may preach ! 



THE MOTHER OF DR. DODDRIDGE TEACHING HIM 
SCRIPTURE HISTORY FROM THE DUTCH TILES. 

Here he beholds the stories he has heard 
From holy lips, embodied to his view ; 

Faith surely follows sight, for God's own word. 
And a fond mother's, tell him all is true I 

Here he beholds his blessed Saviour bear 

The cross — ^there crucified ! — his eyes are dim 

With childhood's tears — his silent thought is prayer, 
As her voice whispers, " It was all for him." 



POEMS. 271 



Could I but fly to that calm, peaceful shore, 
Where shades of the bless'd suffer anguish no more, 

There should I sorrow not, 

Mis'ry and grief forgot, 

Rapture and joy my lot, 
Unfelt before ! 

Dearest of woman-kind, when I review 

All thy fond, plighted vows, faithful and true. 

Fain would my spirit fly 

To the bright realms on high. 

And, in thy destiny. 
Triumph anew ! 

Ah ! my fond heart, all thy wishes are vain, 

Thy transports are vanish'd, thy griefs must remain 

Mem'ry ! torment no more! 

Fancy ! thy reign is o'er ! 

Canst thou to me restore 
Pleasure again ? 

Silence, my Muse ! nor thus idly deplore 
Her whom no sorrow of thine can restore ! 
Nobly endure thy pain, 
Sighs and tears both are vain, 
Cease then thy mournful strain, 
Sorrow no more ! 

[1811.] 



272 POEMS. 



TO A FEIEND. 

I OWN I should rejoice to share 

What poorest peasants do ; 
To breathe heaven's heart-reviving air, 

Under its vault of blue ; 
To see great Nature's soul awake 

At morn in flower and tree ; 
And childhood's early joys partake 

Amid the fields with thee. 

Yet more and more 't would soothe my soul, 

With thee, my friend, to stray 
Where ocean's murmuring billows roll 
, In some secluded bay : 
The silent cliffs, the speaking main. 

The breezes blowing free, 
These could not look, speak, breathe in vain ; 

Still less when shared with thee. 

But though such luxuries as these 

Remain almost unknown, 
We from our scanty store may seize 

Some pleasures of our own ; 
And what could fortune bring of bliss. 

Of purer bliss to me, 
Than when she gave me only this — 

To find a friend in thee. 



POEMS. 273 



HYMN FOR A SU:N^DAY SCHOOL. 

O Thou ! to whom the grateful song 
Of prayer and praise is due. 

Hear, we entreat, our childisli throng, 
And grant Thy blessing too. 

On those who from Thy holy word 

Precepts divine instil. 
And teach us how to love Thee, Lord, 

And do Thy holy will ; 

On such, O Lord ! Thy mercies shed. 
Who, in this world of woe. 

Like fountains with fresh waters fed, 
Bear blessings as they flow. 

May we, beside them planted, bow 
To Thee, the source of love ! 

And drawing nurture from below. 
Breathe sunshine from above. 

Then shall we, while on earth we live, 

To Thine a comfort be ; 
And wither, but through death to live 

An endless life with Thee ! 



274 POEMS. 



EIVEE SCENE. 

O COME and stand with me upon this ridge 
That overlooks the sweet secluded vale ; 

Before us is a little rustic bridge, 

A simple plank ; and by its side a rail, 
On either hand to guide the footsteps frail 

Of first and second childhood ; while below. 
The murmuring brooklet tells its babbling tale. 

Like a sweet undersong, which in its flow 

It chanteth to the flowers that on its margin grow 

For many a flower does blossom there, to bless 
With beauty, and with fragrance to imbue 

The borders — strawberry of the wilderness. 
The starlike daisy, violet deeply blue. 
And cowslip, in whose cup the morning dew 

Glistens unspent till noontide's languid hour ; 
And, last of all, and fairest to the view. 

The lily of the vale, whose virgin flower 

Trembles at every breeze within its leafy bower. 



POEMS. . 275 



THE ABBOT TUEXED AXCHOEITE. 



John Grene, relinquisMng his Abbacie by choice, was consecrated an An- 
chorite of the chapel of St. Mary, in the old monastery, near the sea.'" — 
Old Chronicle. On the shore near Leiston Abbey there is a little mo- 
nastic ruin, which the poet may perhaps be allowed to fancy this Abbot's 
retreat. 



A MOST impressive change it must, 
Methinks, to sucli an one have been, 

To abdicate the abbot's trust, 
And seek this solitary scene ; 

Resigning all the ample sway 

Of yon fair abbey's outstretch'd lands 
For this small cell, this silent bay, 

And barren beach of drifted sands. 

O, did he feel how little all 

Religion's outward pomp and power, 
The soul from earth can disenthral, 

And fit it for its parting hour ? 

And having thus been taught to trace 
Snares in the path his feet had trod, 

Sought he this solitary place. 

Here to " prepare to meet his God ? " 
T 2 



276 - POEMS. 



FROM A POEM ADDRESSED TO SHELLEY. 



■There are, whose soaring spirits spurn 



At humble lore, and, still insatiate, turn 
From wholesome fountains to forbidden springs ; 

Whence having proudly quaff'd, their bosoms burn 
With visions of unutterable things, 
Which restless Fancy's spell in shadowy glory brings. 

Delicious the delirious bliss, while new ; 

Unreal phantoms of wise, good, and fair. 
Hover around, in every vivid hue 

Of glowing beauty ; these dissolve in air, 

And leave the barren spirit bleak and bare 
As Alpine summits ; it remains to try 

The hopeless task (of which themselves despair) 
Of bringing back those feelings, now gone by, 
By making their own dreams the code of all society. 

" All fear, none aid them, and few comprehend ;" 

And then comes disappointment, and the blight 
Of hopes, that might have bless'd mankind, but end 

In stoic apathy, or starless night ; 

And thus hath many a spirit, pure and bright, 
Lost that effulgent and ethereal ray. 

Which, had religion nourish'd it, still might 
Have shone on, peerless, to that perfect day. 
When death's veil shall be rent, and darkness dash'daway. 



POEMS. 277 

Ere it shall prove too late, thy steps retrace : 

The heights thy Muse has scaled can never be 
Her loveliest or her safest d^^elling-place. 

In the deep valley of humility, 

The river of immortal life flovrs free 
For thee — for all. Oh I taste its limpid wave. 

As it rolls murmuring by, and thou shalt see 
Nothing in death the Christian dares not brave, 
Whom faith in God has given a world beyond the grave ! 



autum:n^ musikgs. 

Summer leaves are fading, 
Sere ones flitting by ; 

Frequent clouds are shading 
Heaven's o'er-arching sky. 

Gusty winds are blowing 

Through the shortening day ; 

Evenings longer growing. 
Winter 's on his way. 

My Spring too is over. 
And my Summer past ; 

Daily I discover 
Life more overcast. 



278 ' POEMS. 



But not pain nor weakness 
Can the soul enthral. 

Which, in faith and meekness, 
Looks to God through all. 



THE SEA. 

Ocean, once more upon thy breast 

Delightedly I gaze ; 
Dearer in life's decline confest 

Than in our earlier days. 

When health and strength begin to fail, 

And spirits are deprest. 
Finding less " pleasure in the tale. 

Less smartness in the jest ;" 

'T is then, when fades full many a flower, 

And life draws near the lees. 
We find how much has lost its power 

Ev'n momently to please. 

But still to every grander phase 

Of Nature we return. 
And find in our declining days 

Yet more to love and learn. 



POEMS. 279 

And what can Nature's self supply, 

From all her varied store, 
That may with thee, old Ocean, vie. 

To soothe, or teach us, more. 

Whether our mood be gay or grave. 

Our spirits high or low, 
There 's music in thy dashing wave, 

Or in thy rippling flow. 

Earth is too prone to chance and change, 

Although her face be fair : 
We find, wherever we may range. 

How much is alter'd there. 

But thou in sunshine or in storm, 

In grandeur or in grace, 
Eetain'st thine old primeval form, 

Thine old familiar face. 

Beneath the over-arching sky. 

And sun, and moon, and star. 
Thy beauty and thy majesty 

Man hath no power to mar. 

Even as first the Almighty plann'd 

Where thy domain should be. 
Parted thy waters from dry land 

And named their concourse Sea; 



280 POEMS. 

Ev'n so, from that creative hour. 
With freedom still unquell'd, 

In glory, majesty, and power. 
Hast thou dominion held. 

Yet, endless as may seem thy reign. 

And mighty as thou art. 
Thy sceptre thou shalt not retain. 

It must from thee depart : 

For prophecy foretells a day 
When thou must cease to be : 

When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
" There shall be no more sea." 



TO A PIOUS SLAVE-OWNER. 

Would'st thou before the altar place thy gift. 
Thou who canst hold thy fellow-creature slave. 

First from his neck the yoke of bondage lift, 
And then of God and him forgiveness crave. 

Till this be done, the word of holy writ 

The folly of the offering implies. 
Oh ! read, mark, learn, and inly ponder it, 

" I will have mercy, and not sacrifice ! " 



POEMS. 281 



WHIGS AND TOEIES. 

SusAX, in friendship's social hour, 
Perchance for want of better themes, 

We've scann'd the deeds of those in power, 
And argued on their various schemes ; 

Of Whigs and Tories, ins and outs, 
Of this and that administration. 

We've had our fears, our hopes, our doubts, 
To which the State might owe salvation. 

Nor did our converse lack the zest 
Which difference of opinion gives ; 

A true-blue Tory thou confest. 
And I as staunch a WTiig as lives. 

When I to censure Pitt have dared 
In sober truth, or playful mirth. 

How zealously hast thou declared 
His matchless eloquence and worth ! 

By me the statesman's fame and power 

Unheeded shone, though bright their blaze 

But I must own at such an hour 
I always envied him thy praise. 

And though I fear I still must be 

A Whig, and in the name must glory ; 

So warm my friendship that, for thee, 
I would, but cannot be, a Tory. 



282 POEMS. 



THE DESERTED NEST. 

'TwAS but a wither'd, worthless heap 

Of dirt, and moss, and hair ; 
Why then should Thought and Fancy keep 

A busy vigil there ? 

Yet for some moments as I stood. 

And on it look'd alone, 
I could but think in musing mood. 

Where are its inmates gone ? — 

Perhaps beneath some sunnier sky 

They joyous sing and soar ; 
Perhaps in sad captivity 

Eternally deplore — 

And then. Imagination stirr'd 

Down to its hidden spring, 
Far, far beyond both nest and bird, 

Thought spread her airy wing. 

When from our tenements of clay, 
Where briefly they are shrined. 

Thought, Fancy, Feeling pass away — 
Where flies the deathless Mind ? 



POEMS. 283 



Either, from sin redeem'd, it soars 

On angel wmg above. 
And there its gratitude outpours 

In praise, and joj, and love ; 

Or, exiled from the eternal source 
Whence such alone can flow. 

It breathes in accents of remorse 
Unutterable woe. 



TEIPLETS, 
FOE, TRUTH'S SAKE. 

Let sceptics doubt, philosophers deride 

The Christian's privilege, " an inward guide ;" 

" Wisdom is of her children justified !" 

Let such as know not what that boon implies, 
God's blessed book above his Spirit prize ; 
No stream can higher than its fountain rise I 

Let them whose spirits types and shadows crave. 

For baptism trust the elemental wave ; 

" One Lord, one faith, one baptism," still must save ! 



284 POEMS. 

Let those wlio, like the Jews, require a sign. 
Partake, unblamed, of outward bread and wine ; 
Thou, Lord ! within — canst make the substance mine. 

Believing, in Thy glorious gospel day, 
Types, emblems, shadows, all must pass away ; 
In such I dare not place my trust and stay. 

Abba ! on Thee with child-like trust I call ; 
In self-abasement at thy footstool fall ; 
Asking to know but Thee, and find Thee all ! 



TO LITTLE SUSAK 

The lark as he sings and soars above, 
Remembers his humble home with love. 
And when he has finish'd his joyful strain, 
Grladly sinks down to his nest again. 

And thus, dear girl, though thy flight has been 
O'er many a gayer and brighter scene ; 
E'en so must thy grateful heart incline 
To a home so happy and loved as thine ! 

Fair truant ! thy song, for this many a day. 

Has been " Over the hills and far away ;" 

And now unto us, who seldom roam, 

Thou shalt sing the glad measure of " Home, sweet home." 



POEMS. 285 



The butterfly, which sports on gaudy wing ; 

The brawling brooklet, lost in foam and spray. 

As it goes dancing on its idle way ; 
The sun-flower, in broad daylight glistening ; 
Are types of her who in the festive ring 

Lives but to bask in fashion's vain display, 

And glittering through her bright but useless day, 
" Flaunts, and goes down, a disregarded thing I " 
Thy emblem, Lucy, is the busy bee. 

Whose industry for future hours provides ; 

The gentle streamlet, gladding as it glides 
Unseen along ; the flower which gives the lea 
Fragrance and loveliness, are types of thee, 

And of the active worth thy modest merit hides. 



286 POEMS, 



A DEEAM. 



A DREAM came lately in the hours 

To nightly slumber due ; 
It pictured forth no fairy bowers 

To Fancy's raptured view ; 
It had not much of marvels strange. 
Nor aught of wild and frequent change 

But all seem'd real — ay ! as much, 

As now the page I trace 
Is palpable to sight and touch ; 

Then how could doubt have place ? 
Yet was I not from doubt exempt, 
But ask'd myself if still I dreamt. 

I felt I did ; but spite of this, 
Ev'n thus in dreams to meet, 

Had much, too much of dearest bliss, 
Though not enough to cheat : 

I knew the vision soon would fade. 

And yet I bless'd it while it stay'd. 



POEMS. 287 

But oh, thy look ! It was not one 

That earthly features wear ; 
Nor was it aught to fear or shun. 

As fancied spectres are : 
'Twas gentle, pure, and passionless, 
Yet full of heavenly tenderness. 

One thing was strange. — It seem'd to me 

We were not long alone ; 
But many more were circling thee, 

Whom thou on earth hadst known ; 
Who seem'd as greeting thy return 
From some unknoT\ai, remote sojourn. 



To them thou wast as others be 
Whom on this earth we love ; 

I marvell'd much they could not see 
Thou camest from above ; 

And often to myself I said, 

"How can they thus approach the dead?" 

But though all these, with fondness warm, 
Said " Welcome ! " o'er and o'er, 

StiU that expressive shade, or form, 
Was silent, as before ! 

And yet its stillness never brought 

To them one hesitating thought. 



288 POEMS. 

/ only knew thee as thou wert^ 

A being not of earth ! 
Yet had I not the power to exert 

My voice to check their mirth ; 
For blameless mirth was theirs, to see, 
Once more, a friend beloved like thee. 



And so apart from all I stood, 
Till teara, though not of grief, 

AiForded, to that speechless mood, 
A soothing, calm relief: 

And, happier than if speech were free, 

I stood, and watch'd thee silently ! 

I watch'd thee silently, and while 

I mused on days gone by. 
Thou gav'st me one celestial smile, 

One look that cannot die. 
It was a moment worthy years I 
I woke, and found myself in tears.* 



* " I never could cry — nor do I remember, since childhood, to 
have shed a tear, save once in a dream about Lucy's angel mother ; 
when sleep had -won from me what the waking reality of her loss 
never could." — From a letter. 



P0E3IS. 289 



IN I^^IEMOEY OF F. H. 



And thou indeed art dead ! 
So living, loving, one short week ago ; 

And bitter tears are shed 
For one whose smiles were wont to banish woe. 

While I, who some time past 
Thy birthday sang with mingled hope and fear, 

Now sing of thee my last, 
A dirge of lamentation o'er thy bier. 

Then feebly burn'd the flame 
Of life in thee ; for sickness dimm'd thy brow ; 

And / might seem to claim 
A longer lease of this poor life than thou. 

But thou wast younger far : 
The storm swept over thee ; the cloud pass'd by 

A re-appearing star, 
Thy gentle lustre gladden'd heart and eye. 

u 



290 POEMS. 

Now, in full womanliood. 
Thou to the unknown spirit-land art gone ; 

While I in saddest mood 
Am still left hoping, fearing, lingering on. 

Thus scathed and blighted stems, 
Leafless and fruitless, cumber still the ground ; 

While flowers, that shone like gems 
Of living loveliness, no more are found. 

Not that these flowers die : 
Transplanted to a happier soil, they grow 

Beneath a cloudless sky. 
And there with everlasting fragrance blow. 



To be remember'd when the face 

Of Nature is most fair ; 
Or when some touch of heavenly grace 

Uplifts the soul in prayer ! 

These are the richest, best reward 

A poet's heart can own. 
And happy is the humblest bard 

Who writes for these alone. 



POEMS. 291 



TO THE DEBEN 



No stately villas, on thy side. 
May be reflected in thy tide ; 
No lawn-like parks, outstretching round, 
The willing loiterer's footsteps bound 
By woods, that cast their leafy shade, 
Or deer that start across the glade ; 
No ruin'd abbey, grey with years. 
Upon thy marge its pile uprears ; 
Nor crumbling castle, valour's hold. 
Recalls the feudal days of old. 

Nor dost thou need that such should be, 

To make thee, Deben, dear to me : 

Thou hast thy own befitting charms, 

Of quiet heath and fertile farms. 

With here and there a copse to fling 

Its welcome shade, where wild birds sing ; 

Thy meads, for flocks and herds to graze ; 

Thy quays and docks, where seamen raise 

Their anchor, and unfurl their sail 

To woo and win the favouring gale, 
u 2 



292 POEMS. 

And, above all, for me thou hast 

Endearing memories of the past ! 

Thy winding banks, with grass o'ergrown. 

By me these forty years well known, 

Where, eve or morn, 'tis sweet to rove, 

Have oft been trod by those I love ; 

By those who, through life's by-gone hours, 

Have strew'd its thorny paths with flowers, 

And by their influence made thy stream 

A gfateful poet's favourite theme. 



EPITAPH, 

ON A YOUNG SOLDIER WHO DIED IN INDIA. 

What though the youth who silent rests below. 
Has prematurely met his earthly doom ; 

What thou his generous breast no more shall glow 
With love, nor friendship call the wand'rer home : 

Yet the same hour which summons from the graves 
His mould'ring kindred on Britannia's shore, 

And the same trump, resounding o'er the waves. 
Shall bid the Indian dead to sleep no more. 



POEMS. 293 



Oh had I the wings of a dove ! 

Far, far from the world would I flj. 
And seek a new home for my love 

In those happier regions on high. 

I am weary of this lower earth. 

Its turmoils, its hopes, and its fears ; 

The mourning that follows its mirth, 
Its mirth that is sadder than tears ! 

But there is a world yet to come. 
By Grod's presence eternally blest, 

Where the good shall inherit a home. 
And the weary for ever shall rest. 

Oh had I the wings of the dove ! 

Far, far from the world would I fly, 
And find a new home for my love 

In those happier regions on high ! 



294 POEMS, 



"TOO LATE!" 

Bitter the anguish with these two words blended, 
For those contemplating their hopeless lot, 

Who find life's summer past, — its harvest ended, — 
And winter nigh ! while they are gather'd not. 

Yet do thou. Lord, by thy supreme conviction. 

Give them to feel that, though their sins are great. 

Thy love and mercy own not our restriction. 
But that, with Thee^ it never is too late. 



ON A GARDEN. 

Enough of Nature's wealth is there 

Lost Eden to recall ; 
Enough of human toil and care 

To tell man's hapless fall. 

And Fancy, being once awake, 
Recalls one memory more. 

Of Him who sufier'd for our sake, 
Lost Eden to restore. 



POEMS. 295 



SONNET TO G. D. L. 



My much-loved friend ! whose labours oft dispense. 

To the worn sufferer, health's returning bloom ; 
Skilful, yet modest ; kind, without pretence ; 

Whose cordial sympathy has cheer'd the gloom 
Of hours more dark than Winter's self can show : 

While lengthen'd evenings linger out the year, 
May we, beside thy fire's reviving glow. 

Beguile in social converse evenings drear. 
And if at such an hour a transient thought 

Of vain regret for blessings known no more 
Should cross my mind ; thy friendship, richly fraught 

With consolation, shall my peace restore ; 
Grateful I '11 bow to Heaven's supreme decree. 
Which, though it call'd for much, yet left me thee. 



296 POEMS. 



SONNET. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 



" Another, and another, still succeeds !" 
. And one by one are from us call'd away, 

Friends— valued, loved, and dierish'd many a day, 
For noble thoughts and honourable deeds. 
Yet reckon not that we have leant on reeds. 

Which broke to pierce us, when, without dismay. 

In such we have reposed that trust and stay 
For which, e'en from the grave, their virtue pleads. 
The loved are not the lost ! though gone before : 

To live in others' hearts is not to die ! 

Worth thus embalm'd by faithful memory, 
As dead — -it were ungrateful to deplore ; 
Having outlived the grave is one proof more 

That it was born for immortality ! 



POEMS. 297 



WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK GIVEN TO MY 
DAUGHTER. 

My creed requires no form of prayer ; 

Yet would I not condemn 
Those who adopt with pious care 

Their use as aids to them. 

One Grod hath fashion'd them and me ; 

One Spirit is our guide ; 
For each, alike, upon the tree 

One common Saviour died ! 

Each the same trumpet-call shall wake, 

To face one judgment-seat ; 
God give us grace, for Jesus' sake, 

In the same heaven to meet ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A CEjMETERY. 

Time may be lost, and soon shall be destroy'd ; 

No watchman cries the hour beneath the sod : 
Death dost thou dread ? the sting of death avoid : 

Seek'st thou for pleasure ? learn to please thy God, 



298 POEMS. 



TO A. L 



There are who travel " life's dull road," 
Whom Discontent with ceaseless goad 
Drives forward, murmuring at their load 

Of care and woe ; 
Regardless of the good bestow'd 

On all below. 

Let us more patiently survey 
The prospect, gilded by the ray 
Of hope, and cheer'd by fancy gay, 

A lovely pair ! 
And from our spirits cast away 

All vain despair. 

Believe me, Anne, though I have striven, 
On life's rough ocean tempest driven. 
And borne the heaviest stroke that Heaven 

Inflicts on man, 
I will not aught withheld or given 

Presume to scan. 

And though I often must retrace 
The griefs which time can not efface, 
I 'm not so selfish, blind, or base, 

As to repine 
That she has join'd the angelic race 

Who once was mine. 



POEMS. 299 

Amid this bitterness of woe 
Yet it has been my lot to know 
The comfort friendship can bestow, 

The kindly tear 
That sympathy has made to flow 

From hearts sincere. 

To thee, my friend, may Heaven assign 
A more auspicious fate than mine : 
May pure religion's light divine 

Thy steps attend, 
And cheer with influence benign 

Thy journey's end. 



LAi^DGUARD FOKT. 

Along the sands, and by the sound 

Of ocean, moaning night and day, 
It stands ; — ^its lonely burial-ground 

Scatter'd with low stones, moss'd and grey, 
Whose brief inscriptions waste away 

Beneath the ocean -breeze's spell ; 
And there, beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Still walks the nightly centinel. 



300 POEMS. 



TO A FRIEND m DISTRESS. 

The waters of Bethesda's pool 

Were to the outward eye as clear, 

And to the outward touch as cool. 
Before the visitant drew near. 

But, while untroubled, they possess'd 
No healing virtue : — gentle friend, 

Is there no fount within the breast 
To which an angel may descend ? 

O, while the soul unruffled lies, 

Its mirror only can display. 
However beautiful their dyes. 

The forms of things that pass away. 

But when its troubled waters own 
A Saviour's presence — in the wave 

The healing power of grace is known. 
And found omnipotent to save. 

A glimpse of glories far more bright 
Than earth can give is mirror'd there ; 

And perfect purity and light 
The presence of its God declare. 



POEMS. 301 



TARDY APPROACH OF SPRING. 

EVn now, my daily labour done, 

When faintly gleams tlie setting sun, 

I wander forth : while, all around, 

The ear can catch no livelier sound 

Than gusts of wind, which, hurrying by. 

Through yonder branches seem to sigh ; 

Unless on evening's gale should float, 

In fitful swell, the casual note 

Of martial music * — faintly caught, 

With pleasing melancholy fraught. 

And though the lengthen'd day would fain 

Assert fair Spring's returning reign. 

The leafless boughs, the sighing gale. 

The gathering clouds, the misty veil 

Which shroud the sun's declining ray. 

Confess stern Winter's lengthen'd sway. 

Yet still to me this dreary hour. 

This shadowy landscape, has the power 

To soothe my pensive troubled heart, 

Ajid tranquillizing bliss impart. 

I like to see bleak Winter yield 

To Spring reluctantly the field ; 

* In 1811, when there was a garrison at Woodbridge. 



302 POEMS. 

I love to mark the watery gleam 
Of sunshine on the Deben's stream ; 
While still in some sequester'd lane. 
Screened from the blast that sweeps the plain, 
Some little flower its head uprears, 
Smiling even amid its tears. 
Whose chilly drops shall soon be dried, 
And Flora claim her garland's pride. 



THE VALLEY OF FERK 

PART II. 

Thou art changed, lovely spot ! and no more thou dis- 
playest. 

To the eye of thy votary, that negligent grace. 
Which, in moments the saddest, the tenderest, the gayest. 

Allured him so oft thy recesses to trace. 
The hand of the spoiler has fallen upon thee. 

And marr'd the wild beauties that deck'd thee before ; 
And the charms, which a poet's warm praises had won 
thee. 

Exist but in memory, and bless thee no more. 



POEMS. 303 

The green, palmy fern, which the softest and mildest 
Of smnmer's light breezes could ruffle, — is fled ; 

And the bright-blossom'd ling, which spread o'er thee 
her wildest 
And wantonest hues, — ^is uprooted and dead. 

Yet now, even now, that thou neither belongest, 

Or seem'st to belong, unto nature or art ; 
The love T still bear thee is deepest and strongest, 

And thy fate but endears thee the more to my heart. 
Thou art passing away, like some beautiful vision. 

From things which now are, unto those that have been ! 
And wilt rise to my sight, like a landscape elysian. 

With thy blossoms so bright, and thy verdure so green. 
Thou wilt dwell in remembrance, among those recesses, 

\Yhich Fancy still haunts, though they were and are 
not; 
Whose loveliness lives, and whose beauty still blesses, 

And, though ceasing to be, can be never forgot. 

We know all we see in this beauteous creation, 

However enchanting its beauty may seem. 
Is doom'd to dissolve — like some bright exhalation, 

That dazzles and fades in the morning's first beam. - 
The gloom of dark forests, the grandeur of mountains. 

The verdure of meads, and the beauty of flowers, 
The seclusion of valleys, the freshness of fountains. 

The sec^uester'd delights of the loveliest bowers : — 



304 POEMS. 

Naj, more than all these, that the might of old Ocean, 
Which seems as it was on the day of its birth, 

Must meet the last hour of convulsive commotion, 
Which, sooner or later, will uncreate earth. 

Yet acknowledging this, it may be that the feelings 

Which these have awaken'd, the glimpses they've 
given, 
Combined with those inward and holy revealings 

That illumine the soul with the brightness of heaven. 
May still be immortal, and destined to lead us. 

Hereafter, to that which shall not pass away ; 
To the loftier destiny God hath decreed us, 

The glorious dawn of an unending day. 
And thus, like the steps of the ladder ascended 

By angels, (which rose on the patriarch's eye,) 
With the perishing beauties of earth may be blended 

Sensations too pure and too holy to die. 

Nor would Infinite Wisdom have plann'd and perfected. 

With such grandeur and majesty, beauty and grace, 
The world we inhabit ; and thus have CQnnected 

The heart's better feelings with Nature's fair face ; 
If the touching emotions, thus deeply excited. 

Towards Him who made all things, left nothing 
behind. 
Which, enduring beyond all that sense has delighted. 

Becomes intellectual, immortal, as mind ! 



POEMS." 305 

But they do ; and the heart that most fondly has cherish'd 
Such feelings, nor suffered their ardour to^chill, 

Will find, when the forms which inspired them have 
perish'd. 
Their spirit and essence remain with it still. 

Thus thinking, I would not recall the brief measure 

Of praise, lovely valley ! devoted to thee ; 
Well has it been won by the moments of pleasure 

Afforded to others and chaunted by me. 
May their thoughts and mine often silently ponder 

Over every loved spot that our feet may have trod ; 
And teach us, while through Nature's beauties we wander. 

All space is itself but the temple of God ! 
That so when our spirits shall pass through the portal 

Of Death, we may find, in a state more sublime. 
Immortality owns what could never be mortal ! 

And eternity hallows some visions of time ! 



306 POEMS. 



TO CHARLOTTE M- 



" Thou art but in life's morning ! " Years liave sped 
Their silent flight, since thus my idle rhyme 
Address'd thee in thy being's opening prime ; 

If, since that hour, some clouds at times have spread 

Their shadow o'er thy path, these have not shed 
Their wrath upon thee ; but, from time to time,, 
Have led thy spirit sunnier heights to climb, 

Communing with the loved, lamented dead. 

And still thou art but in the later morn 
Of thy existence — hearts of finest mould 
And best affections are empower'd to hold 

The purer, nobler feelings with them born, 

Which will not let them droop, of hope forlorn. 
Nor by a few brief years grow dull and cold. 

[1828.] 



POEMS. 307 



SCOTT OF AMWELL. 

In childhood's dawn, in boyhood's later days. 
Dear to my heart the Bard of Amwell's lays : 
Whether his Muse portray'd upon her scroll 
The ever-changing " Seasons," as they roll ; 
Or touch'd the heart's more tender sympathies, 
Mourning the rupture of love's sweetest ties; 
Or whether, with a genuine past'ral grace. 
The simple scenery round her loved to trace. 
And tune her Doric reed, or artless lyre. 
To A]mwell's tufted groves, and modest spire ; 
Or, mindless how the world's vain glory frown'd, 
Denounced the martial " drum's discordant sound ;" 
Or true to Nature's social feelings, penn'd 
Sonnets and rhymes to many a distant friend ; — 
Whate'er the theme — truth, tenderness, in all 
Their echo woke, and held my heart in thrall. 

And, even now, in health and strength's decay. 
Ay, on this cheerless, dull November day, 
When moaning winds through trees all leafless sigh, 
And all is sad that greets the ear and eye ; 
Now in my heart of hearts, I cherish still 
The lingering throb, the unextinguish'd thrill, 

X 2 



308 POEMS. 

Woke by the magic of his verse of yore. 
When new to me the Muse's gentle lore ; 
And gratefully confess the boundless debt 
Due to my boyhood's benefactor yet ; 
Nor boyhood's only — when his page I scan, 
What charm'd the child, still fascinates the man. 
And better test of merit none need claim. 
Than thus in youth and age to seem the same. 



Some griefs there are which seem to form 

Our nature's heaviest doom ; 
Which like some dark and dreadful storm 

Cover the soul with gloom ; 
And with the tempest's direful wrath 
Leave devastation in their path. 

But others soft as summer-showers 

Descend upon the heart, 
And to its most delightful flowers 

Fresh loveliness impart ; 
Awakening feelings not of earth. 
Which could not owe to joy their birth. 



POEMS. 309 



STANZAS. 

I FEEL that I am growing old, 

Nor wish to hide that truth, 
Conscious mj heart is not more cold 

Than in my by-gone youth. 

I cannot roam the country round 

As I was wont to do ; 
My feet a scantier circle bound, 

My eyes a dimmer view. 

But on my mental vision rise 
Bright scenes of beauty still, — 

Morn's splendour, evening's glowing skies. 
Valley and grove and hill. 

Nor can infirmities o'erwhelm 

The purer pleasures brought 
From the immortal spirit's realm 

Of feeling and of thought. 

My heart ! let no dismay or doubt 

In thee an entrance win. 
Thou hast enjoy'd thyself without, 

Now seek thy joy within ! 

[1845.] 



310 POEMS. 



There be those who sow beside 
The waters that in silence glide. 
Trusting no echo will declare 
Whose footsteps ever wander'd there. 

The noiseless footsteps pass away. 
The stream flows on as yesterday ; 
Nor can it for a time be seen 
A benefactor there had been. 

Yet think not that the seed is dead 
Which in the lonely place is spread ; 
It lives, it lives — the spring is nigh, 
And soon its life shall testify. 

That silent stream, that desert ground. 
No more unlovely shall be found ; 
But scatter'd flowers of simplest grace 
Shall spread their beauty round the place. 

And soon or late a time will come 
When witnesses, that now are dumb. 
With grateful eloquence shall tell 
From whom the seed there scatter'd fell. 



POEMS. 311 



TO THE WIFE OF ONE DISAPPOINTED OF HIS 
ELECTION TO PARLIAMENT. 



Lady, I send this tributary strain 
Not to condole, but to congratulate : 
I would not so insult thy noble mate 

As to suppose defeat could give him pain. 

Not worthless was the struggle, though in vain, 
Which leaves the vanquish'd victor over fate, 
Up -bearing still with head and heart elate, 

And with a conscience wholly free from stain. 

The world may shout upon the winning side. 
Yet he who loses not his self-control. 
But stands erect with independent soul, 

Though foil'd has still a better source of pride ; 

And may be envied — seated by thy side, 

First in thy heart, though last upon the poll ! 



312 POEMS. 



TO SOME FEIElSrDS 

RETURNING FROM THE SEA-SIDE. 

Forget not the moments 
I've wander'd with you, 

When Nature was glorious. 
And beautiful too. 

When the dash of the billow 
That broke on the beach, 
Made loftier music 

Than science can reach. 

When the clouds, sailing over 

The bright azure sky, 
Look'd like structures of glory 

That proudly pass'd by. 

When the breeze sweeping near us 

Seem'd life to impart. 
And each glowing sun-beam 

Shone into the heart. 



POEMS. 313 



O tliink of those moments, 
When home you return ! 

And the social fire blazing 
Before you shall burn. 

While you, sitting by it. 

With many a smile. 
And 'sisterly converse, 

The hours shall beguile. 

Should fancy then wander, 

As wander it will, 
May it come back and tell you 

I think of you still. 

Should you, when 'tis star-light, 

Look out on the sky. 
And Jupiter's glory 

Flash full on your eye ; — 

Will you then remember 
How brightly he shone 

In our lone sea-side parlour, 
When daylight was gone ? 

Or, when nights are stormy, 
And winter winds high. 

When the war of the elements 
Sweeps through the sky : — 



314 POEMS. 

Should it rouse you from slumber. 
May memory awake ; 

And the sounds that disturb you 
Be sweet for its sake. 

Be the tone of the tempest 

Like that of the sea. 
And in pauses of silence 

Give one thought to me ! 



A VILLAGE CHUECH. 



How quietly it stands within the bound 

Of its low wall of grey and mossy stone ! 
And like a shepherd's peaceful flock around 

Their guardian gather'd — graves or tombstones 
strown 

Make their last narrow resting-places known. 
Who, living, loved it as a holy spot ; 

And dying, did their deep attachment own 
By wishing here to sleep when life was not, 
And that some humble sign might keep them unforgot. 



POEMS. 315 



TO A FEIEISTD 



ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 



This is thy birth-day ! and for friendship's sake, 

Ev'n in this gloomiest season of the year. 
Feelings as warm as spring could ever wake 

Have chronicled, and bid me hold it dear. 

The heart has in itself a hemisphere 
That knows not change of season, day or night ; 

For still when thoughts of those we love are near, 
Their cherish'd forms arise before our sight, 
And o'er the spirit shed fresh sunshine and delight. 



Nature, who wore when few months since we met 
Her summer garb, a different dress displays : 

Your garden walks may now be moss'd and wet ; 
The jasmine's star-like bloom, which, in the rays 
Of the bright moon seem'd lovely to my gaze, 

Has faded now ; and the green leaves, that grew 
So lightly on the acacia's topmost sprays. 

Have lost, ere this, the beauty of their hue, 

And quiver o'er the path their reliques soon must strew. 



316 POEMS. 

Is there nought left then loveliness to lend 
Unto the spot my memory loves to trace ? 

Should I now find, were I to come and spend 
A day with you, no beauty left to grace 
What seem'd of quiet joy the dwelling-place ? 

Oh, yes ! believe me, much as I admired 

Those charms which change of seasons can efface, 

It was not such alone, when home retired. 

That memory cherish'd most, or most the Muse inspired. 

When Nature sheds her leafy loveliness, 

She does not die : her vital principle 
But seeks awhile its innermost recess. 

And there securely finds a citadel 

Which even winter owns impregnable ; 
The sap, retreating downward to the root, 

Is still alive, as spring shall shortly tell. 
By swelling buds, whence blossoms soon will shoot, 
Dispensing fragrance round, and pledge of future fruit. 

And thus our best affections, those which bind 

Heart unto heart by friendship's purest tie. 
Have an internal life, and are enshrined 

Too deeply in our bosoms soon to die. 

Spring's opening bloom and summer's azure sky 
Might lend them animation scarce their own ; 

But when November winds are loud and high. 
And Nature's dirge assumes its deepest tone, 
The joy of social hours in fullest charm is known. 



POEMS. 317 



AND I SAID, THIS IS MY INFIRMITY, BUT I WILL REMEMBER 
THE YEARS OF THE RIGHT HAND OF THE MOST HIGH."— 
Psalm lxxvii. 10. 



Almighty Father ! in these lines, thougli brief. 
Of thy most holy word, how sweet to find 
Meet consolation for the troubled mind. 

Nor for the suffering body less relief ! 

When pain or doubt would as a nightly thief 
Rob me of faith and hope in Thee enshrined, 
O be there to these blessed words assigned 

Balm for each wound, a cure for every grief. 

Yes, I will think of the eternal years 

Of Thy_^right hand — the love, the ceaseless care. 
The tender sympathy Thy works declare. 

And Thy word seals ; until misgiving fears. 

Mournful disquietudes, and faithless tears. 
Shall pass away as things that never were. 



318 POEMS, 



A ISTEW-YEAE OFFEEMG, 

ADDRESSED TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 

1847. 

Once more hath Time's revolving flight, 

Which knows no stop, and brooks no stay, 
From busy day, or silent night. 

Brought us another " New-year's Day :" 
And I, who oft, with votive lay. 

Have heralded the new-born year, 
Once more feel bound my debt to pay, 

Although with trembling, and in fear. 

For who that has attain'd threescore, 

Ajid upwards, — glancing to the past. 
Conning the future, too, once more, 

And conscious that life's sands ebb fast. 
While clouds his evening sky o'er-cast. 

But well may feel — that as to all 
An hour must come, of life the last ! 

How soon the night round him may fall ! 



POEMS. 319 

But this must be as God shall will ! 

Suns rise, and set ; moons wax, and wane ; 
Stars hold their onward courses still ; 

And ebbs and flows the mighty main ; 
The trees, now leafless on the plain, 

Shall bud and blossom with the Spring ; 
And Summer deck with flowers again 

Valley, and hill, where wild birds sing. 



Hope springs perpetual in the breast, 

That one more year may yet be ours ; 
And though this cannot be our rest, 

Life's roughest paths have still their flowers 
E'en through the cloud that darkest lours 

Some gleams of sunshine find their way ; 
The dreaded storm goes off in showers, 

And, once more, all around looks gay» 

Hence, e'en in seasons dark and drear. 

When Winter binds the frozen earth. 
By many a blazing fire we hear 

The blythesome laugh of joyous mirth : 
And, round the cheerful household hearth, 

The kindly wish, the look, the word, 
Call'd forth in spite of Nature's dearth. 

Are kindling, as a fire just stirr'd ! 



320 POEMS. 

It is the season of the year 

When thoughts and feelings, apt to roam 
While groves are green and skies are clear, 

Up-gather, and unfold at home ! 
In lowly hut, or lordly dome, 

Greetings of glee are interchanged ; 
E'en wanderers on the salt sea-foam, 

From kindred seem no more estranged. 



They gaily trim their cabin fire. 

And think of those — who, by the light 
Of their own hearths, now blazing higher. 

To hail this festal day and night. 
With many a jocund New-year rite, 

And thoughts nor tide nor time can stem. 
Their home-bound memories now requite, 

And turn, instinctively, to them. 



Hail to the time ! when social joys. 

In which the humblest have their part, 
Give birth to bliss which seldom cloys. 

But binds mora closely heart to heart ; 
And if unbidden tears may start 

At gaps, by death or absence made, 
A better hope will cheer the heart 

Of unions that shall never fade. 



POEMS. 321 



What marvel, then, if at this time. 

To English hearts, in grief, or glee, 
Hallow'd by many a midnight chime, 

Brighten'd by many a hoUy-tree, 
With its green leaves, and berries free 

To glisten in home's happy smiles, 
My heart should fondly turn to thee. 

Who rulest o'er our sea-gii't Isles ? 



Where are the links that home endear. 

The joys which gladden its fire-side. 
More fondly loved and prized than here. 

Search where you will the world so wide ? 
Such in their purer bliss, and pride. 

Thy consort's, children's smiles inspire ; 
With such is evermore allied 

The memory of thy noble sire I 

To the true soul of England's Queen, 

In English hearts and homes to live. 
And rule them with a sway serene, 

Should be a proud prerogative ! 
A WIFE, a MOTHER, must receive 

From empery so pure and high, 
A joy the sceptre cannot give. 

Nor all the pomp of courts supply. 



322 POEMS. 

The loyalty that owes its birth 

To happy hearths — must far transcend, 
And boast a higher, purer worth, 

Than common homage can pretend ; 
For thoughts and feelings mth it blend, 

Which have their origin above ! 
And ever to their birth-place tend. 

Where loyalty is based on love. 

Then may this coming year — to thee, 

And THINE, with every good be fraught ; 
Froni shore to shore, from sea to sea, 

May seeming ill be overwrought. 
And into such subjection brought. 

By Him who loves to guard the right. 
That skies now dark to boding thought, 

May round thee beam in cloudless light. 



POEMS. 323 



NO MAN THAT WARRETH ENTANGLETH HIMSELF WITH THE 
AFFAIRS OF THIS LIFE, THAT HE MAY PLEASE HIM WHO 
HATH CHOSEN HIM TO BE A SOLDIER."— 2 Timothy ii. 4. 



He who would win a warrior's fame. 
Must shun, with ever-watchful aim, 

Entangling things of life ; 
His couch the earth, heaven's arching dome 
His airy tent, — ^his only home 

The field of martial strife. 

Unwearied by the battle's toil, 
Uncumber'd by the battle's spoil, 

No dangers must affright ; 
Nor rest seduce to slothful ease ; 
Intent alone his chief to please, 

Who call'd him forth to fight. 

Soldier of Christ, if thou would'st be 
Worthy that epithet, stand free 

From time's encumb'ring things ; 
Be earth's enthralments fear'd, abhorr'd ; 
Knowing thy Leader is the Lord, 

Thy Chief the King of kings ! 

Y 2 



324 POEMS. 



THE BIBLE. 

Lamp of our feet ! whereby we trace 
Our path, when wont to stray ; 

Stream from the fount of heavenly grace ! 
Brook by the traveller's way ! 

Bread of our souls ! whereon we feed ; 

True manna from on high ! 
Our guide, and chart ! wherein we read 

Of realms beyond the sky. 

Pillar of fire — ^through watches dark ! 

Or radiant cloud by day ! 
When waves would whelm our tossing bark- 

Our anchor and our stay ! 

Pole-star on life's tempestuous deep ! 

Beacon ! when doubts surround ; 
Compasa ! by which our course we keep ; 

Our deep sea-lead, to sound ! 

Riches in poverty ! our aid 

In every needful hour ! 
Unshaken rock ! the pilgrim's shade ; 

The soldier's fortress tower ! 



POEMS. 325 

Our shield and buckler in the fight ! 

Victory's triumphant palm ! 
Comfort in grief ! in weakness, might ! 

In sickness, Gilead's balm ! 

Childhood's preceptor ! manhood's trust ! 

Old age's firm ally ! 
Our hope — ^when we go down to dust. 

Of immortality ! 

Pure oracles of Truth Divine ! 

Unlike each fabled dream 
Given forth from Delphos' mystic shrine. 

Or groves of Academe ! 

Word of the Ever-living God ! 

Will of His glorious Son ! 
Without Thee how could earth be trod ? 

Or heaven itself be won ? 

Yet to unfold thy hidden worth, 

Thy mysteries to reveal, 
That Spirit which first gave thee forth 

Thy volume must unseal ! 

And we, if we aright would learn 

The wisdom it imparts, 
Must to its heavenly teaching turn 

With simple, child-like hearts ! 



326 POEMS. 



The springs of life are failing one by one. 

And Age with quicken'd step is drawing nigh ; 

Yet would I heave no discontented sigh. 
Since cause for cold ingratitude is none. 
If slower through my veins life's tide may run. 

The heart's young fountains are not wholly dry ; 

Though evening clouds shadow my noontide sky, 
Night cannot quench the spirit's inward sun ! 
Once more, then, ere the eternal bourn be pass'd. 

Would I my lyre's rude melody essay ; 

And, while amid the chords my fingers stray, 
Should Fancy sigh — " These strains maybe its last !" 
Yet shall not this my mind with gloom o'ercast. 

If my day's work be finish'd with the day ! 



POEMS. 327 



VERSES TO A YOUXG FR]E:ND. 

If, long ere this, no lay of mine 

Has been to thee devoted, 
'Tis not because such worth as thine 

Has idly pass'd unnoted. 

To charms more transient, tribute due 

Has oft been idly chanted ; 
And auburn locks, or eyes of blue, 

Have gain'd what folly wanted ! 

To beauty's song and beauty's smile 
My Muse has homage render'd ; 

And unto many a trifling wile 
Some trifling meed has tender'd. 

In praising such, my short-lived song 

Did all that I desired it ; 
It lived, perchance, about as long 

As that which first inspired it. 

Not such, my friend, the song for thee ; 

Did I that lyre inherit, 
'V\Tiich Cowper woke, its strings should be 

Eesponsive to thy merit. 



328 POEMS. 

Thou art not one whose path has been 
Strew'd but with summer roses ; 

With sky above of blue serene. 
Which never storm discloses. 

Who tread such paths, with graceful glee, 
May cull what clusters round them ; 

And, fading, may to memory be 

Just like the flowers that crown'd them. 

But in the bloom of youth to tread 
As through a desert dreary ; 

With much to harass heart and head, 
To harass and to weary ; 

So circumstanced, to cultivate 
Each flower that leisure graces ; 

And thus to find, in spite of fate. 
Sweet spots in desert places : 

To do all this, and still to be, 

In social life, a woman 
From half thy sex's follies free. 

Is merit far from common. 



POEMS. 329 



The lamp will shed a feeble, glinunering light, 

When the sustaining oil is nearly spent ; 

The small stars twinkle in the firmament. 
And the moon's paler orb arise on night. 
When day has waned ; the scathed tree, despite 

Of age, look green, with ivy-wreaths besprent ; 

And faded roses yet retain a scent. 
When death has made them loveless to the sight. 
So linger on, as seeming loth to die. 

Light, colour, sweetness ; thus unto the last 

The poet o'er his worn-out lyre will cast 
A nerveless hand, and still new numbers try ; 
Not unrewarded, if its parting sigh 

Seem like the lingering echo of the past. 



330 POEMS. 



JACOB WEESTLING. 

And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me." — Gen. xxxii. 26. 

Noble words, heroic vow, 

Worthy imitation ; 
Meel: to waken, even now, 

Holy emulation. 

Seed of Jacob ! you who share 

Aught of Israel's spirit. 
Wrestle thus in fervent prayer, 

Blessing to inherit. 

Prayer, surpassing human might ; 

Prayer, heaven's holy portress ; 
Prayer, the saint's supreme delight ; 

Prayer, the sinner's fortress. 

Prayer and faith can joy impart, 

Joy beyond expressing, 
And call down upon the heart 

Israel's richest blessing. 



POEMS. 331 



WINTER EVENING DITTY, 

FOR A LITTLE GIRL. 

'Tis dark and cold abroad, my love, but warm and 

bright within, 
So ransack o'er thy treasured store, and evening's 

sports begin ; 
The playthings, what an endless list ! thy dolls, both 

great and small; 
Empty thy Lilliputian hoard, and let us see them all. 

There's not a king who wears a crown, nor miser 

hoarding pelf, 
More absolute and rich than thou, my little sportive elf ; 
Those dolls thy docile subjects are, that footstool is thy 

throne, 
And all the wealth which mammon boasts is worthless 

to thy own. 

Or must it be a living thing to please thy fancy now, 
There 's puss, although she looks so grave, as fond of 

play as thou ; 
Who patiently submits to sports which common cats 

would tire. 
Contented, if she can but keep her post beside the fire. 



332 POEMS. 

She quietly consents to be in baby garments drest, 
Or, in thy little cradle rock'd, as quietly will rest ; 
I know not which most happy seems when mirthful is 

your air, 
Nor could I find a puck, or puss, with either to compare. 

But if a graver mood be thine — with needle and with 

thread — 
When sport grows dull, e'en give it o'er, and play at 

work instead ; 
Yet much I doubt, though sage thy look, and busy as 

a bee, 
Whether that fit of sempstress -ship will long suppress 

thy glee. 

But hark ! I hear the curfew-bell — thy little eyes grow 
dim; 

Put by thy work, dolls, toys, and all — and say thy even- 
ing hymn : 

'Tis said ! now bid us all farewell, kiss dear mamma — 
and then 

Sweet sleep and pleasant dreams be thine till morning 
dawn again. 



POEMS. 333 



AND THE BARREL OF MEAL WASTED NOT, NEITHER DID THE 
CRUSE OF OIL FAIL, ACCORDING TO THE WORD OF THE 
LORD, WHICH HE SPAKE BY ELIJAH."—! Kings xvii. 16. 



How rich is poverty's scant hoard, 

When God hath bless'd its lot ! 
How poor the heaps that wealth hath stored. 

If He hath bless'd them not ! — 
Witness proud Ahab's regal dome, 
And the poor widow's humble home. 

There dwelt she, with sufficient food 

For nature's simple calls ; 
While fear and caution sentries stood 

Beside the monarch's walls : — 
Her cruse bj power unseen was fed, 
Her meal supplied their daily bread. 

Is there no cruse whose store should feed 

Devotion's hallow'd fire ? 
No living bread, whose daily need 

Our deathless souls require ? 
Are there not seasons when we sigh 
In secret o'er our scant supply ? 



334 POEMS. 

Be ours the faith the widow knew, 
When she the seer supplied. 

So shall we own the promise true, 
God's goodness will provide ; 

The meal shall last, the cruse fail not, 

Till plenty be our spirits' lot. 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD OF EXTRAORDINARY 
ENDOWMENTS AND PIETY. 

It is not length of years which lends 

The brightest loveliness to those 
Whose memory with our being blends, 

Whose love within our bosom glows. 

The age we honour standeth not 
In locks of snow, or length of days ; 

But in a life which knows no spot, 

A heart which heavenly wisdom sways. 

For wisdom taught by Heavenly Truth, 
Unlike mere worldly wisdom, finds 

Its full maturity in youth, 
Its antitype in infant minds. 



POEMS. 335 

Thus was this child made early wise, 

Wise as those sages who, from far. 
Beheld at once in Bethlehem's skies 

The new-born Saviour's herald star. 

No more could learning do for them 

Than guide them in the path they trod ; 

And the same star of Bethlehem 
Led this child's spirit to his God. 

Well may his memory be dear, 

Whose loss is still its sole alloy ; 
Whose happy lot dries every tear 

With holy hope and humble joy. 

'• The brightest star in Morning's host " 
Is that which shines in twilight skies ; 

" Scarce ris'n, in brighter beams 'tis lost," 
And vanishes from mortal eyes. 

Its loss inspires a brief regret, 

Its loveliness is unforgot ; 
We know full well 't is shining yet, 

Although we may behold it not. 



336 POEMS. 



TO THE ^'BEEISTARD BARTON" SCHOONER. 

Glide gently down thy native stream, 

And swell thy snowy sail 
Before fair April's morning beam. 

And newly waken'd gale. 

Thine onward course in safety keep, 

By favouring breezes fann'd, 
Along the billows of the deep 

To Mersey's distant strand. 

Thou bearest no such noble name 

As all who read may know ; 
But one at least that well may claim 

The blessing I bestow. 

That name was given to honour me 

By those with whom I dwell ; 
And cold indeed my heart would be 

Did I not speed thee well. 

Not all the glory those acquire, 

Who far for glory roam, 
Can match the humble heart's desire 

For love fulfiU'd at home. 



POEMS. 337 



BIETH-.DAY VERSES; 
AT SIXTY-FOUR. 

Time, that, as he travels past. 
Seems sometimes slow and sometimes fast, 
Swift as bird, when all looks bright. 
Slow as snail, in sorrow's night ; 
Time, that, with a little span. 
Measures out the life of man, 
And draws the limit at fourscore. 
Has brought me now to Sixty-four. 

When, with retrospective eye, 
Age considers days gone by, 
And contrasts the dreams of youth 
With the present's sterner truth, 
In our outward, inward frame, 
Scarcely we appear the same ! 
Yet the contrast why deplore ? 
Come it must at Sixty-four. 



338 POEMS. 

Fancy, painting all things bright, 
Gay Hope, shedding cloudless light, 
Sanguine ardour for all good. 
In itself scarce understood. 
Buoyant spirits, health robust, — 
Such, with time, must yield their trust ; 
And with most their sway is o'er 
Ere they come to Sixty-four. 

Then the weary Fancy palls ; 
Sober Truth gay Hope enthrals ; 
Good — we would aspire to still, 
Hopeless seems 'mid so much ill ; 
Buoyant spirits lose their sway ; 
Health declines, and must decay ; 
Till sad hearts sicken at the core. 
Reviewing life at Sixty-four. 

Yet this should not be the end 
Unto which life ought to tend y 
Such were but the bud, the bloom. 
Of a morn that fear'd no gloom ; 
Bud and bloom should leave behind 
Fruit to feed the immortal mind : 
Spirit ! count thine inward store ; 
Hast thou none at Sixty-four ? 



POEMS. 339 

Is the past a barren void ? 
Hast tliou suffer'd, and enjoy'd, 
Loathed, and loved, and felt, and thought, 
Yet from all hast gather'd nought. 
Which, the flower now past and gone, 
Thou canst inly feed upon ? 
Life has taught thee no true lore, 
Lacking such at Sixty-four. 



Though thy health and strength decline, 
Though thy drooping spirits pine ; 
Though full many a friend be fled, 
And full many a loved one dead ; 
Thou art not left all alone. 
O'er the past to make thy moan ; 
But Achor's valley is a door 
Of hope to thee — at Sixty-four. 

Friends well-tried, and kindred dear, 
Filial love — are left to cheer ; 
Sweetest memories of the past. 
Fondly cherish'd to the last ; 
Hopes that soar, and thoughts that climb 
Far beyond the verge of time ; 
Healing influence round thee pour, 
And call for thanks ! — at Sixty-four. 
z 2 



340 POEMS. 

Weariness will follow those 

Who touch upon their journey's close; 

But as the sun, though setting, burns 

Still brightly, and to glory turns 

The very clouds that round him roll ; 

So, even so, do thou, my soul. 

With in-born radiance, more and more. 

Illume the shades of Sixty-four. 

Nay, let a yet Diviner power 
Glorify thy ^latter hour : 
Too long faithless and forlorn, 
Earthly image thou hast borne ; 
Now that heavenly impress seek. 
Which, when flesh is frail and weak. 
Gives the soul new power to soar, 
Eagle-wing'd — at Sixty-four. 



POEMS. 341 



ON THE GLORY DEPICTED EOUXD THE HEAD 
OF THE SAVIOUR. 



A BLAMELESS fancy it perchance might be 
Which first with glory's radiant halo crown'd Thee ; 

Art's reverent homage, eager all should see 
The majesty of Godhead beaming round Thee. 

But if thine outward image had been such, 
The glory of the inner God revealing, 

What hand had dared thy vesture's hem to touch, 
Though conscious even touch was fraught with healing ! 

More truly, but more darkly, prophecy 
The form of thy humanity had painted ; 

One not to be desired of the eye, 
A Man of sorrows, and with grief acquainted. 

Saviour and Lord ! if in thy mortal hour 
Prophets and saints alone could tell thy story, 

O how shall painter's art, or poet's power, 
Describe Thee coming in thy promised glory ! 



342 POEMS. 



TO A GRANDMOTHER, 

" Old age is dark and unlovely." — Ossian. 

O SAY not SO ! A bright old age is tHne ; 

Calm as the gentle light of summer eves, 

Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves ; 
Because to thee is given, in thy decline, 
A heart that does not thanklessly repine 

At aught of which the hand of God bereaves. 

Yet all He sends with gratitude receives ; — 
May such a quiet thankful close be mine ! 

And hence thy fire-side chair appears to me 
A peaceful throne — ^which thou wert form'd to fill ; 
Thy children, ministers who do thy will ; 

And those grand-children, sporting round thy knee. 

Thy little subjects, looking up to thee 
As one who claims their fond allegiance still.* 

* " A good Sonnet. Dixi.''—C. Lamb. 



roEMS. 343 



> 



I WALKED the fields at morning prime, — 
The grass was ripe for mowing ; 

The sky-lark sang his matin chime, 
And all the world was o-lowino^. 

I wander'd forth at noon, — alas. 

On earth's maternal bosom 
The scythe had left the withering grass. 

And stretch'd the faded blossom. 

Once more at eve abroad I stray'd. 
Through lonely hay-fields musing, 

While every breeze that round me play'd 
The perfume was difiusing. 

And so the '^ actions of the just," 
When memory has enshrined them, 

Breathe upward from decay and dust. 
And leave sweet scent behind them. 



344 POEMS, 



ON A 



DRAWING OF NOEWICH MAEKET-PLACE, 

BY COTMAN.— TAKEN IN 1807. 

Moments tliere>re in which 
We feel it is not good to be alone ! 

Shrined in our narrow niche, 
As if we would all fellowship disown. 

And least of all for me, 
A poor recluse and book-worm, is it good 

An alien thus to be, 
Standing aloof from my own flesh and blood. 

In desk-work through the day. 
In minstrel labour to the noon of night, 

I would not wear away 
My sympathy with every social right. 

In many an hour of thought. 
And solitary musing mood of mind. 

Good is it to be brought 
Thus into intercourse with human kind. 



POEMS. 34o 

To see the populous crowd 
Who throng the busy market's ample space ; 

To hear their murmur loud, 
And watch the workings of each busy face. 

To let my Fancy roam. 
As Fancy will, would we but grant her leave, 

With each unto his home — 
There finding what may glad the heart or grieve. 

On all around to look, 
With a true heart to feel and sympathize ; 

As reading in a book, 
Those countless windows looking down like eyes 

On the dense mass below — 
O, who can guess what feelings past and gone. 

Of varied weal or woe, 
Throbb'd in the busiest there, or lookers on ! 

Needs there a graver thought 
To give the motley scene more solemn power ? 

How quickly is it brought 
By that old church's lengthen'd roof and tower ! 

It looks down on the scene 
Where buyers — sellers — earn their daily bread ; 

Forming a link between 
The busy living and the silent dead. 



346 POEMS. 

And ever and anon. 
High above all that hubbub's mingled swell. 

For some one dead and gone 
Is heard its deep sonorous funeral bell. 

Thirty-eight years gone by 
Thus did this motley moving medley look ; 

And still unto mine eye 
It utters more than any printed book. 



THE SPIEITUAL LAW.* 



*' But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that 
thou mayest do it." — Deut. xxx. 14. 



Say notthe Law Divine 
Is hidden from thee, or afar removed : 

That Law within would shine, 
If there its glorious light were sought and loved. 



* *' I am particularly pleased with the * Spiritual Law.' It re- 
minded me of Quarles, and holy Mr. Herbert, as Izaak Walton 
calls him — the two best, if not only, of our devotional poets; 
though some prefer Watts, and some Tom Moore." — C. Lamb. 



POEMS. 347 

Soar not on high, 
Nor ask who thence shall bring it down to earth ; 

That vaulted sky 
Hath no such star, didst thou but know its worth. 

Nor launch thy bark 
In search thereof upon a shoreless sea, 

Which has no ark. 
No dove to bring this olive-branch to thee. 

Then do not roam 
In search of that which wandering cannot win : 

At home, at home 
That word is placed, thy mouth, thy heart within. 

O, seek it there. 
Turn to its teachings with devoted will ; 

Watch unto prayer. 
And in the power of faith this love fulfil. 



348 POEMS. 



SONNET. 

The niglit seems darkest ere the dawn of day 
Rises with light and gladness on its wings : 
And every breaker that the ocean flings 

To shore before the tempest dies away. 

Some sign of wreck, or token of dismay. 

Awakening thoughts of death and ruin, brings. 
But he whose spirit resolutely clings 

To his best hopes, on these his mind can stay. 
Faith, humble faith, can doubt and fear defy ; 

For every wound it bears a healing balm. 

Turns sorrow's moan into thanksgiving's psalm ; 
And those who trust in God when storms are high, 
And waves are rough, and starless is the sky, 

Shall sing his praise in the eternal calm. 



POEMS. 349 



VISION OF AN OLD H0:ME. 



Straight before me rose 
A house where all was hush'd in cahn repose ; 
For 'twas a summer morning, bright and fair, 
And none of human kind were near me there. 
Before the house there were some lofty trees, 
Whose topmost branches felt the morning breeze 
And glisten'd in the sunbeams ; these among 
Were numerous rooks attending on their young, 
Whose clamorous cawings, as they hover'd round, 
Seem'd to my ear like Music's sweetest sound. 
Below, before the house, there was a space, 
Where in two rows were set, with bloomy grace, 
Orange and lemon trees ; which to the sun 
Open'd their fragrant blossoms every one ; 
And round them bees all busily were humming, 
Cheerily to their morning labours coming : — 
And in the centre of each space beside, 
An aloe spread its prickly leaves with pride. 
***** 

Now in the garden of that house I stray'd. 
Its flowers, its mossy turf, its walks survey'd ; 



350 POEMS. 

Explored each nook and roam'd through each recess 
With pleasure and light-hearted carelessness : 
Nor was it long before I found a walk 
Where I might meditate alone or talk ; — 
A grassy walk, with lime trees on one side, 
Bordering a pond which yet they did not hide ; 
For here and there upon its rippling bosom 
The water lily oped her dewy blossom ; 
And, at the end of this sweet walk I found 
A grotto, where I listen'd to the sound 
Of turtle-doves, which in a room above. 
Were tremulously telling tales of love. 



TO FELICIA HEMAXS. 

Much do I owe thee for the passing gleams 
Of verse, along my weary pathway thrown : 

Musical verse, that came like sound of streams 
Heard from afar, and in whose silver tone 
My soul the happy melodies could own 

That gladden'd childhood — ^like the softest breeze 
Breathing at eve from leafy copses lone, 

Mix'd with the song of birds, and hum of bees. 

With deeper notes between like sounds of mighty seas. 



POEMS. Sol 



THE SQUIRREL. 

(FOR A CHILD'S BOOK.) 

The squirrel is happy, the squirrel is gaj. 
Little Henry exclaim' d to his brother, 

He has nothing to do or to think of but play, 
And to jump from one bough to another. 

But William was older and wiser, and knew 
That all play and no work wouldn't answer, 

So he ask'd what the squirrel in winter must do, 
If he spent all the summer a dancer. 

The squirrel, dear Harry, is merry and wise. 
For true wisdom and mirth go together ; 

He lays up in sunnner his winter supplies, 
And then he don't mind the cold weather. 



It is a glorious summer eve, and in the glowing west, 
Pillow'd on clouds of purple hue, the broad sun sinks to 

rest ; 
From me his radiant orb is hid behind the towering cliff, 
But brightly fall his parting beams on yonder seaward 

skiff. 

An hour it is when memory wakes, and turns to former 

years. 
And lives along the travell'd line of parted hopes and 

fears ; 
A time when buried joys and griefs arise and live again^ 
Those sober'd in their happiness, these soften' d in their 

pain. 



352 POEMS. 



PLAYFOED. 



Upon a hill-side green and fair 

The happy traveller sees 
White cottages peep here and there 

Between the tufts of trees ; 
With a white farm-house on the brow, 
And an old grej Hall below 

With moat and garden round ; 
And on a Sabbath wandering near 
Thi'ough all the quiet place you hear 

A Sabbath-breathing sound 
Of the church-bell slowly swinging 

In an old grey tower above 
The wooded hill, where birds are singing 

In the deep quiet of the grove ; — 
And when the bell shall cease to ring, 
And the birds no longer sing, 
And the grasshopper is heard no more, 

A sound of praise, of prayer, 

Rises along the air, 
Like the sea murmur from a distant shore. 



POEMS. 353 



SONNETS TO BURSTAL.* 
t BERRY'S HILL. 

Who gave this spot the name of Berry's Hill 
I know not, and in sooth care not to know ; 
For names, like fashions, often come and go 

By mere caprice of arbitrary will ; 

But 'tis a lovely spot — enough of skill 

Hath been employed to make it lovelier show, 
Yet not enough for art to overthrow 

What Nature meant should be her livery still. 
That gleaming lakelet sparkling in the ray 

Of summer sunshine ; these embowering trees. 

Rustled each moment by the passing breeze ; 
And those which clothe with many -tinted spray 
Yon wooded heights ; green meads with flowerets 

gay; 

Each gives to each yet added powers to please. 



* These eight sonnets were composed during a day's visit to the 
village of Burstal, near Ipswich, in some grounds belonging to 
John Alexander. 



2 A 



354 POEMS. 



II. 



THE SEAT AT BERRY'S HILL. 

It was a happy thought, upon the brow 
Of this slight eminence, abrupt and sheer. 
This artless seat and straw-thatch'd roof to rear ; 

Where one may watch the labourer at his plough ; 

Or hear well-pleased, as I am listening now. 
The song of wild birds falling on the ear, 
Blended with hum of bees, or, sound more drear, 

The solemn murmur of the wind-swept bough. 
Tent-like the fabric — in its centre stands 

The sturdy oak, that spreads his boughs on high 

Above the roof: while to the unsated eye 

Beauteous the landscape which below expands. 
Where grassy meadows, richly cultured lands, 

With leafy woods and hedge-row graces vie. 



POEMS. 



III. 



THE SAME SCENE. 



It were, methinks, no very daring flight 
Unto a poet's fond imagination, 
To make this tent a prouder habitation ; 

Where Nature's worshipper and votary might, 

With each appropriate and simple rite, 
Bow to her charms, in quiet adoration 
Of Him who meant his visible creation 

Should minister to more than outward sight. 
O then this tent-like seat might well become 

A temple — more befitting prayer or praise 

Than the mere listless loiterer's idle gaze ; 
And if it struck the sordid worldling dumb, 
Proving of Nature's charms the countless sum, 

'Twere not less worthy of the poet's praise. 



356 POEMS. 



lY. 



IN THE SHRUBBERY NEAR THE COTTAGE. 

Fair Earth, thou surely wert not meant to be 
Time's show-room ; but the glorious vestibule 
Of scenes that stretch beyond his sway and rule. 

Or that of aught we now can hear or see. 

For he who most intently looks at thee. 
Must be a novice ev'n in Nature's school — 
In one far higher a more hopeless fool. 

To go no further with her master-key ! 
Beautiful as thou art, thou art no more 

Than a faint shadow, or a glimmering ray 

Of beauty, glory, ne'er to pass away ; 

Nor thankless is thy minstrel, at three-score. 
While he can revel in thy beauteous store, 

To look beyond thy transitory day. 



POEMS. 357 



V. 



THE BURSTAL LAKELET. 



The dweller on Ullswater's grander shore, 
Or Keswick's, would deny thee any claim 
Even to bear a lakelet's borrow'd name. 

Of thy small urn so scanty seems the store. 

And such would doubtless scout the poet's lore, 
Who one poor sonnet should presume to frame 
In celebration of thy humble fame. 

Although to theirs he could award no more. 
Yet all the pomp and plenitude of space 

They boast, can but reflect the wider scene 

Of beauty round ; as lovely is the sheen 
Of thy clear mirror, in which now I trace 
The soften'd impress and the heighten'd grace 

Of earth and sky, both silent and serene. 



358 POEMS. 



VI. 



THE TWO OAKS. 



Theke are among the leafy monarclis round, 
Trees loftier far than you, of ampler size. 
And likelier to attract a stranger's eyes. 

With sylvan honours more superbly crown'd. 

And yet in you a higher charm is found 
And purer — to our sweetest sympathies, 
Than all that Nature's lavish hand supplies 

To others, growing on this fairy ground. 
Ye are mementos of a wedded pair, 

Once wont this loved familiar scene to tread — 

Death, which has lowly laid one honour'd head, 
Has but conferr'd on you an added share 
Of love and interest, since to us you are 

Memorials of the living and the dead. 



POEMS. 359 



VII. 



EYENING IN THE VALLEY. 

" Earth has not anything to show more fair." 

So Wordsworth sang what time he made his theme 

The bridge that arches Westminster's proud stream ; 
Yet had he seen this lovely valley wear 
The lingering brightness day hath yet to spare, 

Each lengthening shadow and each sunny gleam, 

Silent in all their changes as a dream. 
He might have doubted which the palm should bear. 

And now calm Evening draws her curtain grey 
Over the melting twilight's mellower flush ; 
But for the brightly glowing roseate blush 

That tinges still the west, it fades away ; 

And Nature owns the meek and gentle sway 
Of pensive Twilight's universal hush. 



360 POEMS. 



VIIL 

BURSTAL, IN THE FOUR SEASONS. 

How sweet it were, methinks, to sojourn here 
And watch the seasons in their changeful flight : 
To see the Spring bedeck with wild-flowers bright 

The valley and those swelling uplands near ; 

To mark the Summer in her blithe career 
Bursting in full luxuriance on the sight ; 
And matron Autumn re-assert her right 

To crown with harvest boons the circling year. 
Nor undelightful would it be, I ween. 

At Christmas here to trim the cottage fire, 

Pore o'er the lay or tune the Muse's lyre, 

What time rude Winter, with his sterner mien, 
In spotless snow array'd the alter'd scene, 

And hush'd in stillness all the woodland choir. 



POEMS. 361 



retireme:n"t axd prayer. 

"And he withdrew himself into the wilderness and prayed." — Luke v. 16. 

If thus our Lord himself withdrew. 

Stealing at times away, 
Ey'n from the loved, the chosen few, 

In solitude to pray. 
How should his followers, frail and weak, 
Such seasons of retirement seek ! 

Seldom amid the strife and din 

Of sublimaiy things, 
Can spirits keep their watch within. 

Or plume their heaven-ward wings ; 
He must dwell deep, indeed, whose heart 
Can thus fulfil true wisdom's part. 

Retirement must adjust the beam, 
And prayer must poise the scales ; 

Our Guide, Example, Head supreme, 
In neither lesson fails ; 

Oh, may we in remembrance bear, 

He sought retirement, — practised prayer i 



362 POEMS. 



I]^ CCELO QUIES. 

Not in tliis weary world of ours 

Can perfect rest be found ; 
Thorns mingle with its fairest flowers. 

Even on cultured ground ; 
A brook — to drink of by the way, 

A rock — its shade to cast. 
May cheer our path from day to day. 

But such not long can last ; 
Earth's pilgrim, still, his loins must gird 

To seek a lot more blest ; 
And this must be his onward word, — 

" In heaven, alone, is rest." 

This cannot be our resting-place ! 

Though now and then a gleam 
Of lovely nature, heavenly grace. 

May on it briefly beam : 
Grief's pelting shower. Care's dark'ning cloud, 

Still falls, or hovers near ; 
And sin's pollutions often shroud 

The light of life, while here. 
Not till it "shuffle off the coil" 

In which it lies deprest, 
Can the pure spirit cease from toil ; — 

" In heaven, alone, is rest ! " 



POEMS. 363 



Kest to the weary anxious soul, 

That, on life's toilsome road, 
Bears onward to the destined goal 

Its heavy galling load ; 
K^st unto eyes that often weep 

Beneath the day's broad light. 
Or oftener painful vigils keep 

Through the dark hours of night ! 
But let us bear with pain and care. 

As ills to be redrest, 
Relying on the promise fair, — 

" In heaven there will be rest !" 



THE END. 



JOHN CHILDS AND SON, BUNGAY. 



